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Tiny, Arthur’s Great Dane, raises his head from where he’s been reposing next to his chair and whines. He must sense the tension in the air.
"Sorry, ol’ boy," I say in a soothing voice.
Arthur pats the dog. Once the mutt lowers his head onto his giant front paws, Arthur turns to me with a strange look in his eyes. "And what if I tell you my days are numbered?"
"What do you mean?" I frown.
For the first time in my life, a look of uncertainty comes over Arthur’s features. "It’s nothing." He swipes his hand through the air. "Forget I said anything."
"Spit it out. What are you hiding?"
"It’s none of your concern." He shuffles the papers on his desk, and his hand trembles. What the—! Arthur Davenport never gets nervous. So, what is he playing at? When I continue to glower at him, he sighs. “You’ve made up your mind, and obviously, there’s nothing I can do to sway it."
My frown deepens. It’s not like Arthur to give up that easily. I came in here expecting a full-on fight with him, and in a way, I’m disappointed he didn’t try harder to get his way. It makes me suspicious. "What are you up to Arthur?"
He stills his actions, and when he looks at me, that hesitation on his features has bled into his eyes. "I wish I could say that this is all part of a bigger nefarious plan, but it is not."
"The fuck you mean, old man?"
He hunches his shoulders and seems to shrink in size. Suddenly, the desk dwarfs him, and the office seems too overpowering for his presence. He seems to have aged in a matter of seconds and looks every day of his eighty-two years.
"It’s nothing," he protests again, but the fight seems to have gone out of him.
I rise to my feet and lean forward. "What are you hiding?"
"It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to cause more stress to the lot of you."
"A little too late for that. Besides, let me worry about that. If there’s something you should be telling us?—"
The door bursts open, and a woman storms in. She’s wearing motorcycle boots, leather pants and a jacket. She’s carrying a helmet under her arm and is panting. Her brown hair is interspersed with strands of grey and blue. I recognize her as Zoey’s grandmother Imelda. But what is she doing here?
She stomps toward Arthur, then raises the helmet and throws it at him. With an alacrity that belies his years, Arthur ducks.
"You motherfucker!" the woman growls as she closes the distance to him. "You shit-eating wanker."
Tiny springs to his feet. He takes one look at the advancing woman, then wisely, walks around her, giving her a clear berth, and stops by my side. I pat his head, and the two of us watch as she comes to a stop in front of Arthur. The look on Arthur’s face, though… I suppress a laugh. It’s the first time I’m seeing him gob smacked. Another first for me.
"Imelda, now, I’m sure I can explain, honey,” he murmurs.
"Honey?" It’s my turn to be shocked. I pick up my jaw from the floor and stare as the woman slams a fist into Arthur’s table. "You two-faced, loose-bottomed, sandy-balled twat."
I wince. So does Arthur. He begins to rise to his feet, but Imelda stabs a finger at him. "Sit the fuck down, you wanker."
Arthur sits. And I’m back to gaping. I glance down at Tiny to find he has his mouth open and tongue lolling, as well. Tiny meets my gaze, then huffs. Is the mutt chuckling? Nah, not possible. Tiny looks back at Arthur. So do I, in time to see Imelda’s shoulders shake.
"Why didn’t you tell me about the doctor’s diagnosis?!"
26
Quentin
"He has stage three liver cancer?" Knox frowns.
I nod. "And he wouldn’t have told me except that his girlfriend, Imelda, barged in and?—"
Tyler spits out his whisky. "He has a girlfriend?"
"It would seem that way, yes." I shake my head. I’m trying to get my head around the developments from this morning.
