Page 37 of Blind Prophet

I follow him inside and can’t stop myself from asking, “You aren’t needed at the office?”

He exhales.

I probably shouldn’t have said anything, given that work was a sore point between us. A therapist helped me see it was symptomatic of larger issues, namely an inability to communicate.

“Spoke to Nick.”

I pause, one hand on the stairwell as my mind runs through my mental Rolodex.

“Ivanov?”

“The one and only.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s not my biggest fan these days.”

“He’s never been a fan.”

That earns a chuckle.

“Always been one of yours.”

Realization dawns. “Nick told you to get out of the office and spend time with me.”

He’s at the top of the stairs, whereas I’m still on the first step. He doesn’t confirm or deny.

“You want honey with your tea?”

“Sure,” I call.

“How is Nick these days?” I ask.

“Same Nick.”

“How so?”

“Making enemies with the wrong people.”

I stand in the kitchen, watching as Dorian opens the kitchen cabinet doors with a methodical, one-at-a-time approach.

“Funny, I don’t recall that about him.”

“No?”

“If my memory serves, everyone loved Nick.”

“Women.”

“Well, that too.” He opens a drawer.

“Why don’t you just ask your chef to make you tea?” It’s a bit of a dig, but it’s also the truth. He doesn’t know where anything is, which means he’s never in the kitchen.

I step past him into the butler’s pantry. There’s a coffee machine on the counter, and I open one cabinet to reveal coffee mugs. When I open the adjacent door, I discover a tightly sealed glass jar full of wrapped tea bags. I lift a panel beside the coffee machine, find a teapot on a warmer, and lift it to fill it with water.

“Do you want any?” I ask.

“I don’t drink tea.”

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