J. R. Alastor knew my name. The award-winning, bestselling author whose murky identity had been a source of news speculation for the last twenty-nine years, had sought me, a random nobody, out. Asked if I’d take part in enacting justice for some crimes the law couldn’t touch. Rumor had it he’d been a cop or a lawyer, having a knack for insider knowledge on procedure and prosecution; others claimed he might be a doctor, or a murderer himself, to write so accurately about injuries.
