Twelve“Cyrus, Lani’s upset. She’s crying in her room. What’s going on?”
Her husband was in his favorite padded office armchair, facing out to the street, a tumbler of brandy at his elbow, his white hair tinged yellowish from cigar smoke.
Misty took a deep breath. This room was the only place in the house she permitted him to indulge in the foul things, and from the warm fuggy air she knew this one wasn’t the first he’d smoked today.
She crossed to stand by his chair and heavy red blotches under his eyes told her this wasn’t his first drink either. His face always turned a mottled color when he overindulged.
He acknowledged her presence with a belligerent glare and took another pull on the cigar.
“How should I know? Maybe she’s upset about Bully.”
He kept staring out to the street. Sh
