"I think people are pragmatic," Richard replied smoothly. "And I am a pragmatic man."
Sadie slowly reached out her hand. Richard's thin smile widened fractionally—a look of vindicated cynicism. Her fingers brushed the heavy paper of the envelope.
"Richard, put that away!"
The voice cracked through the vast, quiet room like a whip. It was thin, reedy, but it carried a terrifying weight.
Sadie snatched her hand back as if the envelope had caught fire. She spun around.
Standing in the hallway, leaning heavily on an ebony cane with a silver handle, was Beatrice. She looked smaller than she had in the diner. She was wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal pantsuit, but it hung slightly loose on her frail frame. A neat, stark white bandage covered the left side of her forehead—a glaring contrast to her pale skin.
But her pale blue eyes were blazing. They were fixed entirely on her son.
"Mother," Richard said, his smooth veneer cracking slightly. He quickly lowered the envelope, slipping it behind his back like a child caught stealing. "You shouldn't be out of bed. The doctor said—"
"I don't care what the doctor said!" Beatrice snapped, slowly making her way into the room. Each step with the cane was deliberate, labored, but fiercely stubborn. "And I certainly do not care for what you are doing in my office!"
"I am handling a liability, Mother, as I do every day."
"She is not a liability!"
Beatrice struck the concrete floor with the tip of her cane; the sharp crack echoed through the massive room.
"She is the only person in this godforsaken city who treated me like a human being instead of a fragile antique, and you are insulting her!"