ROXIE

The heavy, pressurized tires of the private jet struck the rain-slicked runway at JFK with a jarring, bone-shaking jolt that snapped me out of my trance.

I looked out the thick oval window of the cabin, the dark gray clouds of the Atlantic storm fading into the familiar, bleak afternoon fog of the New York coastline.

The long, exhausting eight-hour flight was officially over. My legs were stiff under the oversized cashmere sweater, and my hands were cold, but the quiet, slow-burning fire beneath the shared conference table hadn't died down for a single second. Every time the plane had banked over the ocean, the heavy line of Garrison’s...