even more fervor than RTJ had, as investors leapt at the once-in-a-lifetime chance to get in on the ground floor of the next Michael Jordan or LeBron James, both of whom had reached net worths in the billions. Prescott had deliberately undervalued the listing to re-energize his market, and the idea had worked to perfection. One million shares of J opened at 5, peaked briefly at 34, and then closed at 27. AVEX was the only financial news story of the day.
Melvin Brown’s death had been lost in the hype of the opening and had barely made the news the next day. Prescott tried to convince himself that a known sex offender committing suicide outside his window couldn’t have had anything to do with him, and he didn’t bother to ask any questions.
Meanwhile at the orphanage a man giving the name of Daryl Washington dropped in, looking to pick up anything J’Quarius may have left behind.
“Just one letter that came in today’s mail,” the headmistress said, handing over the envelope.
“Thanks.” Daryl said, his eyes darting nervously for the return address. Then with a suddenly relieved smile he added, “For what it’s worth J’Quarius is really happy.”
Strolling through the parking lot back to his car “Daryl Washington” placed a call to Aaron Bradford. “You were right. I got the letter. Our source at The Times intercepted the other one earlier this morning.”
“Perfect. Bring them to me unopened,” Bradford said appreciatively. He wanted to be the one to destroy the letters personally, to know for sure it was done.
He still had a scout in Mississippi watching J’Quarius’s great-grandparents’ mailbox for a potential third letter, and he’d had Melvin Brown’s apartment thoroughly searched – before the police had even positively identified his body. A healthy paranoia pervaded all of Bradford’s actions, and it had served him well throughout his career.
A week passed and no third letter was ever delivered. As a token of his appreciation, Prescott had bequeathed the chairmanship of the board of J, along with a 5% ownership stake, to Bradford. J was his now.
CHAPTER 4
Ryan found himself standing in the pouring rain at the rear bumper of the Chevy Suburban that had forever changed his life. Knowing what was coming next, he quickly ducked and looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see his daycare teacher lunging for him.
But she was nowhere to be found.
The facility wasn’t there either.
Behind him was only a long, empty road with no clear beginning. On the other side of the tangled mess of metal and glass, the road stretched on beyond the horizon with no turns and no perceptible end.
He straightened up his posture, bit down on his lower lip and, with as much courage as he could muster, finally stepped around the back end of the Chevy Suburban. Just as he did, the rain stopped – as if a faucet had been turned off – and the storm clouds melted into a star-filled sky, unobscured by the new moon.
His parent’s Honda Civic was tilted grotesquely forward with all four wheels off the ground, effectively molded to the front of the Suburban, the front windshields of the two vehicles nearly touching. Ryan bit down a little harder on his lip and concentrated on the sound of his breathing, shallow and rapid through his nose, trying to stay composed. Nerves taut, he wrapped his fingers over the passenger-side window frame, pulled himself up onto his tiptoes and stretched his neck to try and see inside.
“Ryan?”
Any other sound would have startled him. But this soft, comforting, familiar voice was instantly soothing. Ryan immediately let go – of the car door he was holding on to, of the confidence he was trying to project, of the emotions he’d been trying to suppress, of everything. He ran to his mother, standing at the side of the road with his father, and collapsed into her open arms. Sobbing, with his head still buried
Melvin Brown’s death had been lost in the hype of the opening and had barely made the news the next day. Prescott tried to convince himself that a known sex offender committing suicide outside his window couldn’t have had anything to do with him, and he didn’t bother to ask any questions.
Meanwhile at the orphanage a man giving the name of Daryl Washington dropped in, looking to pick up anything J’Quarius may have left behind.
“Just one letter that came in today’s mail,” the headmistress said, handing over the envelope.
“Thanks.” Daryl said, his eyes darting nervously for the return address. Then with a suddenly relieved smile he added, “For what it’s worth J’Quarius is really happy.”
Strolling through the parking lot back to his car “Daryl Washington” placed a call to Aaron Bradford. “You were right. I got the letter. Our source at The Times intercepted the other one earlier this morning.”
“Perfect. Bring them to me unopened,” Bradford said appreciatively. He wanted to be the one to destroy the letters personally, to know for sure it was done.
He still had a scout in Mississippi watching J’Quarius’s great-grandparents’ mailbox for a potential third letter, and he’d had Melvin Brown’s apartment thoroughly searched – before the police had even positively identified his body. A healthy paranoia pervaded all of Bradford’s actions, and it had served him well throughout his career.
A week passed and no third letter was ever delivered. As a token of his appreciation, Prescott had bequeathed the chairmanship of the board of J, along with a 5% ownership stake, to Bradford. J was his now.
CHAPTER 4
Ryan found himself standing in the pouring rain at the rear bumper of the Chevy Suburban that had forever changed his life. Knowing what was coming next, he quickly ducked and looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see his daycare teacher lunging for him.
But she was nowhere to be found.
The facility wasn’t there either.
Behind him was only a long, empty road with no clear beginning. On the other side of the tangled mess of metal and glass, the road stretched on beyond the horizon with no turns and no perceptible end.
He straightened up his posture, bit down on his lower lip and, with as much courage as he could muster, finally stepped around the back end of the Chevy Suburban. Just as he did, the rain stopped – as if a faucet had been turned off – and the storm clouds melted into a star-filled sky, unobscured by the new moon.
His parent’s Honda Civic was tilted grotesquely forward with all four wheels off the ground, effectively molded to the front of the Suburban, the front windshields of the two vehicles nearly touching. Ryan bit down a little harder on his lip and concentrated on the sound of his breathing, shallow and rapid through his nose, trying to stay composed. Nerves taut, he wrapped his fingers over the passenger-side window frame, pulled himself up onto his tiptoes and stretched his neck to try and see inside.
“Ryan?”
Any other sound would have startled him. But this soft, comforting, familiar voice was instantly soothing. Ryan immediately let go – of the car door he was holding on to, of the confidence he was trying to project, of the emotions he’d been trying to suppress, of everything. He ran to his mother, standing at the side of the road with his father, and collapsed into her open arms. Sobbing, with his head still buried
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