Chapter 3

Edward James lived in an old complex on the south side of the city, a company-provided apartment he'd been given twenty years ago.

There was no elevator. The stairwell was papered over with little ads for drain-clearing services, and the air held the stale smell of years of cooking grease.

William, carrying two bottles of wine and a carton of cigarettes, was out of breath by the time he'd climbed to the sixth floor.

He stood at the door a moment to catch his breath before he raised a hand and knocked on the paint-chipped steel door.

"Coming, coming!"

Edward's booming voice came from inside, followed by the slap of slippers.

The door opened. Edward stood there in a washed-out old T-shirt, a spatula still in one hand, that same cheerful grin on his face that never seemed to change.

"Well, well, William! Now there's a rare guest! Come in, come in!"

Edward waved him warmly inside.

The place wasn't big, only around seven hundred square feet, two bedrooms and a living room, crowded with too much stuff but kept clean.

The moment William stepped inside, he felt something he couldn't quite name. Something off.

Too at ease.

And it wasn't the ease of laziness. It was a settledness that ran all the way to the bone.

On the coffee table there were no expensive tea sets, just a plate of sliced watermelon and a few books lying open.

On the sofa, a young man sat with his legs crossed, looking at his phone. Edward's son, Leslie James.

Seeing William come in, Leslie set the phone down at once, stood, and greeted him with a smile: "Hi, Mr. Finch."

The smile was easy, neither fawning nor stiff, his eyes clear and bright, without a trace of the flinching gloom William saw in Duke.

"Ah, good, good."

William answered, but inside it was like a needle went in.

That spark in Leslie, that life in him, was exactly what William had dreamed of seeing in his own son.

"Dad, I'll go do the fish for you. Mr. Finch is here, you two talk."

Leslie took the spatula from Edward's hand without a second thought.

"All right, go easy on the soy sauce. Your Uncle William's got high blood pressure, keep it light for him."

Edward chuckled and patted his son on the shoulder.

Leslie didn't seem to mind. He answered with a grin: "Got it, you nagging old man."

The whole thing left William staring.

In his house, Duke never set foot in the kitchen, and William had never allowed it. That was women's work. A man's hands were for holding a pen.

And the way these two talked to each other, so casual, like a couple of buddies, without any of that weight of who was elder and who was younger.

"Sit, sit, William, make yourself at home."

Edward pulled William down onto the old sofa and poured him a glass of plain water.

"No good tea in the house, this'll have to do."

William set the cigarettes and wine he'd brought on the table, but his eyes kept drifting toward the kitchen.

"Edward, you've done a real job with that son of yours."

He took a sip of water, covering the sour edge in his voice.

"Ah, job, what job. He's just an ordinary kid, earning his keep."

Edward waved it off, not making anything of it.

"Don't be so modest. I hear he's a director now. Must be a good salary."

Edward smiled and peeled an orange, handing William a piece.

"That's just luck. He caught the industry at a good time."

William set the glass down, leaned forward, and his eyes sharpened.

"You and I, we've been colleagues all these years, so you know my family's a good deal better off than yours, and I gave Duke everything I had. So how is it that now..."

He stopped, didn't finish, but his meaning was plain enough.

Edward's hands went still for a second, and the smile eased back a little on his face.

He glanced toward the kitchen, then at William sitting there so unwilling to accept it, and let out a quiet sigh.

"William, the truth is, sometimes we parents just try too hard."