stone-faced security officers. He passed Eleanor too, who stood frozen like a pillar of salt, her chest rising in ragged breaths.
His gaze stayed on me.
“Blair,” Richard whispered, his voice trembling like a dry autumn leaf caught in a draft. “What… what on earth is Arthur Keating talking about? What forged signatures? What loans?”
I studied the man who raised me, and then looked at the pathetic ghost he had allowed himself to become.
A decade ago he had sat speechless in the shadows while Eleanor had torn my