He arrived forty minutes later.
No driver.
No suit.
No executive armor.
We ate reheated pasta at my kitchen counter.
He told me about his father.
About a childhood defined by expectations.
About his mother, who had softened the spaces between them.
About how, after she died, Adrian and William Kane had become two men exchanging responsibilities instead of feelings.
“He thinks London is the obvious choice,” Adrian said.
“For the business?”
“For me.”
“And what do you think?”
He stared at his plate.
“I think I spent eighteen years trying to become someone he would never worry about.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was efficient.”
I smiled.
“So is a refrigerator. That doesn’t make it a life philosophy.”
He laughed.
Then his gaze moved to the bookshelf.
Daniel’s photograph was there.
Adrian stood and walked toward it.
“I’ve been thinking about his letter.”
“So have I.”
“He thought we were alike.”
