“How many times can I write to tell you I didn’t do anything,” Jenny had written in one of the last daily letters. “I hate it here. There’s ...ardly anything to do and I don’t like to do the things there are to do. I miss you and I think of you all the time.”From that point on she would write if she had something interesting to tell Brock--but even her weekly letters were filled with how much she wished she were home.“So, did you play football at your old school or is the team just that terrible. I called Andy to tell him I was bringing guests to the cookout, to put the beer in a cooler and take it outside to the tables. I was not sure if the guests would eat.“Who are the guests?” Andy asked.“Anton Pavlenko and his guards make sure everyone stays close lipped about operations and keep all conversations to a social nature,” I said.“You like playing with fire, is all I can say,” Andy replied.Anton’s car followed us in the front gate. I could smell and see smoke from the grill when I. More

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