The thunderstorm hit just as I was leaving campus, turning what should have been a twenty-minute drive to the Calloway estate into a white-knuckle nightmare of lightning, torrential rain, and winds that made my car feel like a toy being tossed around by an angry child.
I probably should have waited for better weather. Should have called ahead. Should have come up with a more reasonable plan than showing up unannounced at one of the most exclusive family compounds in the state during what meteorologists were calling a “dangerous weather event.”
But I was done with reasonable plans. Done with strategic thinking and careful approaches and all the diplomatic nonsense that kept me from getting straight answers about why Alexander had decided I was too dangerous to care about.
The Calloway es
