“Gwen Bartlet here to see Phillip Castor as his defense attorney.”
The man picked up a tablet and skimmed through it. Slipping the wipe back in her bag, she straightened and said, “No. Especially considering the amount of money Brantwood was offering him. They refurbished it as a prison.”
The man’s eyebrows climbed up his head as he looked at her. I’m afraid if you were to challenge any change or discontinuation of the deal you made, it would attract untoward attention. Amber Bell hung up her phone and adjusted her glasses as she looked up at the strange building before her. You won’t have to enjoy your earnings from a jail cell. Everything I need’s taken care of.”
“You… did hear that Colin Gerrard died, yes?” Amber said. Viscous scarlet spilled from his fingers like oil from a punctured drum, thick and warm as it cascaded down his neck and soaked his shirt. “With less amenities.”
Phillip visibly tensed, approached the woman, and sat at the table to her right. Hardly a prison, Christoph Jarden was more of an involuntary ‘Club Med’
