“You want me out of my own home,” Hartwell said flatly.
“I want you alive in it,” Brewer answered before he could stop himself, then swallowed hard as if he’d tasted his own audacity. “Begging your pardon, sir.”
Hartwell should have thrown him out for that. Instead he stared at the ink on his page until it blurred. There were days when he felt like a man who had already died and simply forgotten to lie down. Finally he stood, reaching for his coat as if it belonged to someone else.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll go.”
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
