When I returned home, Harrison was sitting alone in the darkened living room. Only one lamp remained on.
The ashtray in front of him was overflowing with cigarette butts, and the air carried the heavy smell of smoke that had settled into the furniture after hours of silence.
For a moment, he didn't even seem to notice I had entered.
Then he slowly lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion.
"How did it go?"
"Mr. Foster accepted the revised proposal," I answered as I walked farther into the room. "We're waiting for a response."
Harrison nodded once, but his expression didn't relax in the slightest.
I understood immediately.
At this point, the Westside project was no longer the thing hurting him most.
The real damage was psychological.
The daughter he had loved and pr
