Bentley stepped into the living room of his parents' house, the familiar scent of polished wood and fresh flowers enveloping him. His mother kept a lot of flowers. He could still remember how sad she would be when any of her flowers withered and how quickly his father would have them replaced. His father never liked to see his mother sad. Why would he when he had everything within his reach to make her happy.
His father, Charles Sterling, sat with his legs crossed, reading a newspaper. Charles preferred the old-fashioned way of getting information, finding a certain satisfaction in the rustle of paper and the smell of ink.
"Hello, Dad." Bentley greeted, not expecting an answer. He couldn't even remember the last time his father responded to a greeting from anyone except his wife whom he
