I’d been hoping for a warm and fuzzy reunion with the man who has basically been my father for the last twenty years. But when we walked into the West End townhouse, the most striking thing was the smell. The fine fragrances Rupert usually pampers himself with have been replaced by pungent medicinal odors. And when we make it to the second floor where Rupert is ensconced in his overstuffed couch, a knitted blanket draped over his torso and legs, I thank all the gods Finan grabs me around the waist so I don’t melt.
Wes was being generous when he described Rupert’s condition.
He looks an inch away from death.
“Stop gawking and come in.”
“Hey, Number Two,” I say, trying to steady my voice. I slide into one of the wingback chairs facing the couch.
“Do not ask me how I’m feeling,” he bites
