Max did his best to ignore the dread building within like a hardening concrete block making every step a struggle, but with the Hull dinner only ten hours away, he found it impossible to think about much else. He tried searching the internet for more on Corkille but he couldn't concentrate. Across his desk, he watched Sandra immersed in Corkille estate papers, criminal record searches, and other routine research. A fleeting sensation of peace passed through him. She glanced up, perhaps sensing his attention, and threw one of her casual but devastating smiles. Drummond burst in and, with a clap of his hands, said, "So, we got the big dinner tonight. Too bad I can't actually eat anything anymore. Rich people know how to throw a spread. This'll probably be the best meal you've ever eaten, and I'm going to have to watch. You know, I'll bet that's why the bastard wants me there — torture me with things like that." Grabbing his coat and coffee, Max said, "I'm going to see Melinda Corkille." "Something I said?" "I'm not spending the day fretting over Hull." "Who's fretting?
