Graham Whitfield pulled over on the M25 hard shoulder and screamed until his throat bled.
Not metaphorically. He actually scream — a raw, guttural sound that tore out of his chest and bounced off the windshield and died against the roar of lorries thundering past at seventy miles per hour. He screamed because Silas had looked at him like he was furniture being appraised for disposal. Because Isobel had told him to hire a lawyer as if that was wisdom and not condescension. Because Leonard — Leonard, who had once toasted their partnership in Monaco — had told him to swallow his own evidence and call it loyalty.
He screamed until his voice broke. Then he sat there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white, and felt something crystallize inside him. Not grief. Not fear. Something harder and more useful. Hatred.
