The clinic still smelled of fresh paint and chamomile tea. My last patient, Mrs. Gable, had spent most of our session explaining why her cat, Patches, had stopped eating his usual tuna.
At the Sterling estate, one bad meeting could move billions before lunch. Here, the crisis was a lonely cat, and I liked the scale of it.
“He just stares out the window, dear,” she fretted, wringing her hands. “I think he’s lonely.”
“Or maybe he just wants to try salmon,” I suggested gently, making a note on my pad.
The bell above the clinic door rang. I looked up and dropped my pen.
Arthur Sterling stood in the doorway, wet from the gray drizzle. His suit was wrinkled, with mud around the cuffs.
Rain flattened his hair across his forehead, and the dark circles under his eyes said he had barely slept.
