The chambers of a Federal Judge are designed to be intimidating. The mahogany walls, the high ceilings, the absolute silence that swallows sound—it all serves to remind visitors of the gravity of the law. I sat behind my desk, the heavy oak surface covered in case files, the golden seal of the United States hanging on the wall behind me.

I signed the final order on a racketeering case I had been overseeing for months. My signature was sharp, practiced, and final.

My phone buzzed on the corner of the desk. I glanced at the screen and felt a jolt of surprise that I quickly suppressed.

Richard Vance.

My father. Or rather, the man who had contributed half of my DNA before disappearing to the French Riviera when I was sixteen. I hadn’t spoken to him in ten years. Not since the day he and my mother, Martha, decided that parenting a teenager interfered with their “lifestyle aspirations.” They left me with my grandfather, Henry, and never looked back.

I let it ring three times before picking up.

“Judge Vance,” I answered, my voice professional, detached.

“Evelyn! Darling!” Richard’s voice boomed down the line, smooth and overly affectionate, as if we had spoken yesterday. “Judge? Oh, that’s right, I heard you were… working in the legal field. Listen, sweetheart, your mother and I are back in the States! We’re settling into a new place in Connecticut. We miss you terribly.”

I swiveled my chair to look out the window at the gray D.C. skyline. “What do you want, Richard?”

“Direct as always,” he laughed nervously. “We want to see you! It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. Come over. We want to bury the hatchet. Help you get back on your feet if you’re struggling. We know law school loans can be crippling.”