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“It’s fine,” I instantly assure at the same time I lock eyes with my best friend. “It’s over.”
J.T. rolls his before dramatically exiting with a snatch of the paperwork.
“Clark’s on his way to retrieve you.”
“For?”
“Hamilton wants to discuss Lauren’s health status.”
“Why didn’t he just call himself?”
“He says he needs to do it face to face.”
“Question remains.”
“He needed to washup after their visit – medical protocols or some shit – and apparently, I’m not busy busting my ass, trying to make enough tembleque for everyone on the staff to celebrate Cassandra’s over the top ‘Around the World in 40 Years’ themed birthday party tonight, around filling weekly food orders, redirecting misplaced products, and teaching these wish they were sous-chefs how to properly clean copper pots!”
Pressing my lips together traps in my chortle.
“He’s in the medical suite,” Lucky informs over clamoring sounds. “The place where you deliver bottled water not bottles of distilled vinegar!”
“They’re both clear,” someone sasses in the background.
“You motherfuc-” is all that I hear courtesy of him abruptly ending the call.
Like most of the department heads of the estate, he’s been around long enough to earn his occasionally ornery nature.
Afterall, it’s not easy keeping everything in line.
Especially not for one of the richest, most powerful men in the country.
Upon rising to my feet, I retrieve the black oversized hoodie that’s draped on the back of my chair, slip it along with my black balaclava mask in place, flick up the hood leaving only my stare exposed, and exit my first floor, personal office, where I do most of my meetings with the face of our company.
The trek from there to the front door is not only short.
It’s thankfully empty.
Void of framed portraits.
Shelved accolades.
Colorful creations purchased for the sake of charity or chosen to change the course of someone’s career.
This is one of the few sections of the manor where existence and penance don’t have to meet.
At least not until you pass the indoor fountain.
Outside, a short distance from the main double door entryway, is Clark Baker, one of the oldest members of the household who was also quite close with both my parents, waiting to escort me across the grounds in one of the golf carts used for everything except golf.
Because I hate golf.
I’ve only kept the course my parents had installed because they had it installed.
I’ve changed very little about the entire estate since their deaths.
Very.
Little.
