Aaron Mercer had attended meetings with assassins that made him less nervous than the conference room on the ninth floor of the U.S. Attorney's Office.
At least assassins were straightforward.
They wanted money.
Information.
A body.
Sometimes all three.
Federal prosecutors wanted something infinitely more complicated.
The truth.
Every piece of it.
Even the pieces Aaron had spent twenty years convincing himself belonged to somebody else.
He sat at the end of a polished conference table at 8:14 the next morning, wearing a charcoal suit, white shirt and dark tie.
Roman had inspected the suit before Aaron left the estate.
His verdict had been disappointing.
"No orange?"
Aaron had nearly shot him.
Apparently threatening your childhood friend immediately before meeting federal prosecutors was considered poor strategy.
So Aaron had settled for telling Roman to go to hell.
Roman had responded that therapy was at three and perhaps Aaron should find his own appointment.
