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    “Tyler Cain?” she asked.
    He nodded. “Ms. McKay?”
    “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.” She ushered him past her vacated desk while retrieving a series of white business envelopes. Then she hurried through a nearby doorway. He followed her into the adjoining conference room. “Please, have a seat. Would you care for something to drink?”
    Straight to business. Perhaps his plan hadn’t backfired after all.
    “No, thank you. I’m good.”
    She sat across from him, opened one of the envelopes, and slid the contents across the desk: one handwritten letter.
    “This was the first letter Judge Santiago received.”
    He glanced to the bottom.
    “A Manichean?”
    “No idea. I can’t find a record of the name in anything remotely associated with the NEXT case. Possibly an alias.”
    Tyler scanned the letter, trying hard not to seem terribly interested. He picked up the gist, however. Whoever this A Manichean was, he—or she, Tyler reminded himself, although the handwriting didn’t exude femininity—seemed terribly concerned about the outcome of the NEXT Transition appeal, as though his or her own well-being hinged on the outcome. Tyler tossed the letter back onto the table. Jennifer slid him a second, then a third. In all three cases the writer asked the judge to correspond.
    “I look forward to hearing from you soon,” Tyler read aloud. “Please post your response at the following private forum address: ANON.CHAT.4398.”
    Tyler recognized the link format. ANON.CHAT sites were littered with titillating posts from illicit lovers trying to stay connected between trysts. The perfect forum to remain anonymous. The posting party controlled whether and how to reveal his or her identity. Very few ever did.
    He rescanned the text of the final letter but found no explicit threat. All four of them could have been written by anyone interested in the case; possibly a snooping reporter or religious activist.
    “It just sounds to me like a person worried the judge will make the wrong decision.”
    Jennifer visibly bristled at the remark. “And which decision would that be?” she said accusingly.
    Defensive. Or maybe…protective.
    Tyler shrugged. “You tell me what the wrong decision would be.”
    “Even if I knew Judge Santiago’s opinion on the case,” she said with brash self-importance, “I’m certainly not at liberty to tell you.”
    “Ms. McKay, I don’t really care about where Judge Santiago lands on the specifics of”—he glanced back at the letter to jog his memory—“The specifics of the NEXT appeal. But you must suspect someone dangerous does care. Isn’t that why you asked for the best private investigator available?”
    “I’m sorry. You’re right.” Jennifer seemed to welcome Tyler’s condescension. She seemed eager for someone to relieve her from an exhausting posture of strength. He sensed control moving to his side of the table.
    “Listen, Mr. Cain. You’ve taken time out of your busy schedule to help, and here I am…well, I’m the one who asked you to come. It’s just, usually we receive this kind of letter and forget about it. People send hastily written notes crafted in a moment of anger or frustration or even praise. End of story. But this feels different.”
    “You mentioned that on the phone.”
    “This case has serious implications for a lot of people no matter which way the judge decides.”
    “I thought appeals required three opinions. What about the other two judges?”
    “I checked. No letters.”
    “What’s your theory?”
    “Both have published opinions in the past in transition-related cases. One leans for, the other against. I assume whoever wrote these letters knows enough about the judges to figure Judge Santiago’s opinion will be the tiebreaker.”
    Tyler frowned at the unhelpful but likely theory. “Perhaps you can tell me who has the most to lose and gain from Santiago’s decision.”
    “Well…” Jennifer hesitated. Tyler understood. He