The man looked at Charles. My father nodded once, a cursory dismissal. "Thank you, Arthur. We'll finish this later."
The man excused himself, the door clicking shut behind him. Charles leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled, his expression one of infinite, weary patience.
"You've been unreachable for most of the morning," Charles said. "I assume the business in the port district required your personal attention?"
He knew. Of course he knew. He might not have the specifics, but he knew I'd been out in the dark, doing the work he pretended didn't exist.
The air in the study was stagnant, thick with the scent of old paper, expensive tobacco, and the suffocating weight of things left unsaid for two decades.
My father remained seated behind the expansive mahogany desk, his head now bowed over a leather-bound folder.
