The Crucible of Two Faces
I first met Edward Blackwood on a Tuesday in October. He was forty-two, wore glasses with thin gold frames, and had the kind of face that people forget the moment they look away. He sat in my office on East 78th Street and told me his story with the calm, measured voice of a man who had rehearsed it a thousand times. "My family was destroyed," he said. "Not by violence. By paperwork. By forged...
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