JENSYN
Arthur reminded me of my father.
Not in the way he looked, or even the way he dressed. Arthur carried himself with a kind of elegance money buys, while my father was always gruff and irritable. My father looked at people like they were meant to play roles assigned in his head long before they even spoke. Arthur looked at me like that.
Dad was never around much. When he was, I did my best to stay invincible. He had his way of making me feel like I owed him for the air I breathe. I learned early how to measure my words, how to sink into a hole I created in my heart. Arthur made me feel that same old crawl under my skin. Yet, here I was, sitting across him in his house that smelled like threats.
“Sit,” Arthur ordered, motioning toward the velvet armchair across from the one he sank
