Page 57 of Letters From Victor

VICTOR

Iflashed my empty inner coat pockets at Lawrence. “Look, no cigarettes.”

His forehead wrinkled as his eyebrows shot up. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He let out a low whistle. “Didn’t think I’d see the day.” He motioned to the empty pair of leather chairs in front of his desk. “What prompted that miracle?”

“They make Barbara wrinkle her nose.”

Lawrence chuckled. “Your best pal hacks out his burnt lungs, and nothing. But your girl wrinkles her nose, and suddenly you’re a model of clean living.”

I smirked and sank into the chair. The leather groaned as I leaned back. Lawrence’s office smelled of old books, paper, and polished mahogany—the scent of bureaucracy and long hours bending the law into the right shape. Sunlight slanted through the Venetian blinds, carving the cluttered desk into bands of light and shadow.

Lawrence adjusted his glasses, the gold rims glinting. “So, how are you holding up? I know waiting isn’t your strong suit.”

“We’re managing,” I said. “How much longer do you think?”

He opened a file and flipped through a few pages, and for a moment, there was only the rustle of paper. “I’m doingeverything I can to push things along. I got the case filed in a district with a sympathetic judge who won’t waste our time, but there’s only so much I can do.”

“How long until we get a court date?”

“Two months, give or take. That’s if everything goes smoothly.” He closed the file and steepled his fingers. “I met with Dorothy, and she agreed to our terms. For now. But Victor, don’t get comfortable. I wouldn’t carve it into stone just yet.”

“She’s angling for more, Larry. Always is.”

“She wants to see you suffer,” he said, his tone measured. “And that’s why you have to be on your absolute best behavior. A veritable choir boy. You can’t give her any ammunition with the judge.” Lawrence rocked back in his chair, tapping a pen against his lips. The striped shadows from the blinds cut across his face, masking his expression in bands of light and dark. “You understand that means no contact with Barbara. Not even a phone call. You might have a tail, Victor. Hell, I’d put money on it. If the judge suspects any collusion or infidelity, he could throw out the case.”

I shifted in my seat, my slacks sliding along the smooth leather. My jaw tightened at the thought of Barbara—waiting, hoping, trusting me to navigate this.

I nodded. “She’s left my office. I haven’t seen her since. We’ve talked on the phone, but we’ve been careful,” I said. “Discreet.”

“Discreet won’t cut it,” Lawrence said, turning back to me. The creases between his brows deepened as he spoke. “You need to be invisible.”

I exhaled slowly. “She’s out there on her own, Larry.”

Lawrence removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, the skin raw from years of pressure. “I know,” he admitted, “but it’s the only way. Especially considering who her family is.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” His tone turned exasperated. “You do know who her father is, don’t you?” His face twisted as he ruffled a hand through his thinning hair and tugged at it by the roots.

In all of our time together, Barbara and I had never once discussed her family.

“Victor!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in disbelief. “For Christ’s sake—she’s a Montgomery! How the hell didn’t you know that?”

“She would have told me,” I protested.

Lawrence huffed as he fished a file from one of the stacks on his desk and flipped it open. “Barbara Evans, born Barbara Montgomery—the youngest child of Milton and Agatha Montgomery. Milton Montgomery was the mayor of Los Angeles back in the twenties. From there, he served in the state legislature in the thirties and eventually in the US Congress during the war. Currently, he’s on delegation to Hawaii as part of the statehood commission.”

I let out a slow breath. “Oh, hell.”

“Indeed.” Lawrence shut the file with a soft thud. “She comes from serious stock, Victor. The kind of family that makes the society pages just for having Sunday dinner. You really didn’t know any of this?”

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to process the new information. The mahogany-paneled walls seemed to close around me, the scent of aged paper and leather thickening like smoke. “No. She never mentioned her parents.”

Lawrence shrugged. “Maybe she wanted you to like her for herself, not for her connections. Or maybe she thought you’d put two and two together.”

I stood, unable to sit still any longer. The striped shadows from the blinds danced on the walls as I paced. “Why does it matter who her family is?”

“It matters because they’re powerful, Victor. And power means scrutiny. Every move she makes is watched, and by extension, every move you make with her.”

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