SEVEN
Frank Oliver sat alone in his huge corner office. No one commiserated with him. No one loaned a shoulder to cry on. No one clucked his tongue and assured him that something needed to be done to protect him and his clients. That something needed to be done about that damn Ken Hargrove. No, he was left alone to mull over what was happening to him and his section.
And mull it over, he did – if sitting alone and conjuring up demons was how one defined “mulling.” Considerable danger lurked in letting Frank work through something like this by himself. His mind was fertile ground for conspiracy theories. Without someone to provide a reality check, his imagination roamed unfettered by logic and reality, and ultimately joined forces with paranoia, and, oh, the places his mind would go.
To
