CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Monica staggered and leaned against the doorjamb. ‘Yes?’ She looked at Franklin with dead eyes. No recognition, no curiosity.
‘Can we come in for a quick chat?’
She did a sparrow-like twitch as something infiltrated her consciousness. ‘About Neil?’ she slurred.
Alcohol fumes wafted up Franklin’s nostrils. How much had she drunk?
Monica’s legs sagged. Sam reacted instantly, supporting the frail woman and leading her to the couch.
Franklin let his offsider settle the widow, fuss with a cushion and make a cup of coffee.
Monica sipped her cuppa. ‘A drop of rum?’ She pushed her mug towards Sam, spilling liquid.
Sam cut her eyes to Franklin and he cut to the rum bottle on the coffee table. It was empty. He wouldn’t give it to the widow in her state anyway.
‘Here you
