A hippo can handle the work he normally gives me, it’s never anything of real substance. My father trusted only himself for serious topics.
The last few days have been different though. Either he’s starting to trust me—unlikely—or something’s happened. Whatever it is, it’s major enough that he’s taking the time to give me things with meat on the bone. Or toss over the scraps, at least.
Tonight, it’s a handful of bank receipts. All addressed singly under his name at Hardin. My task has been to go over the stack and look for adjustments that might have been made. Money taken out, moved.
There are none.
He highlights something. The marker scrapes across the top of another document with angered precision.
That vein on his forehead has been a permanent fixture on his head since the day I was born. Silas isn’t known as the type of guy to ever relax, but tonight I notice how it pulsates with extra zest.
“Are you almost done?”
“If you are. Finally willing to kick the bucket, old man?” I jab, disguising my hopefulness with a sneer.
The glow from the light on his desk casts him in an awkward shadow. The dark lines adding more drama to his already hollow features. Highlighting the green flecks in his hazel eyes.
Silas doesn’t try and hide his disdain for me. Around the public he might be a tablespoon more hospitable but not when we’re alone.
Privately is when he prefers to unleash his true charisma.
“I can pull out my phone and start a timer if you want to get a head start on holding your breath.”
“Hilarious,”—he doesn’t crack a smile—“maybe if you spent less time spitting out nonsense like a fool and more time focusing, you’d be done faster.”
I’m not joking.
I fling the papers at him, rising from my chair. “These were finished hours ago. A second grader can handle the stuff you give me.”
That vein jumps. “This is why you will never amount to anything. You see time and you waste it instead of using it to your every advantage.”
He’s wrong, but I don’t botherwastingthe air frommylungs to explain it to him.
“Guess I just wanted the extra time to admire your beauty,” I deadpan.
“I’m not surprised,” he says, cutting off his own sentence with disinterest. Straightening out the papers I tossed over instead.
I shouldn’t take the bait; I know he’s goading me. A similar tactic he’s been famous for using on my mother when she was alive.
Call me a fish because I’m about to get suckered.
“How can you not be?”
“You don’t have it in you to be what this company expects from us. You’ve never had the spine for it. Maybe the Kellet name will die out with me.”
Die,death.About as empty and lonely as the emotions I have for him.
I bark out a laugh. “I can only be so lucky. The transfer of my half of Hardin will be granted to me that much sooner.”
Silas cringes, it’s subtle, barely a jerk, but I catch it. Something not right about the gesture. The man is only ever confident. That one movement carried too much substance, insight.
“What, don’t tell me you’re still upset over the fact that I’m your only living heir?” I sneer. He’s had eighteen years to grovel over the fact that my mother and he never reproduced again.
“There’s a loophole for everything, son. The sooner you learn that in life, the quicker you can understand why it’s important to get ahead.”
Silas is full of humor tonight. Another throaty laugh finds its way out. “And what’s ahead for me? We both already know the answer to that.”
My fingers latch on to the desk that will one day be mine. “Dad.”