Page 51 of Blind Prophet

“That’s the big house, right?”

The big house. That’s what she’d always called my father’s mountain home.

“Yes.” I circle it once. “You can see he added a screened-in porch off his bedroom. And an outdoor pool.”

“Is that practical?”

“It looks more like a pond. Salt water.”

“In-ground?”

“Yes. But he does things to it over the winter.”

“He does things to it?”

I side-eye her, and she laughs.

“You mean he hires a pool company to take care of it?”

“Yes.”

As we come around the side, Geoffrey comes into view, standing beside his sedan parked in the carport by the garage, with a phone pressed to his ear. He’s got one hand over his eyes, no doubt wondering why my helicopter is circling Dad’s house.

I’d wave, but he likely wouldn’t see me. Instead, I head off to Denver.

“It’s funny,” Caroline says.

“What?”

“Your father conducts business from the wilds of Colorado, and businessmen still show up in ties and suits.”

She doesn’t know the half of it.

“Geoffrey always wears a suit.”

“It’s very New York.”

“I suppose.” The same cultural shorthand I learned while navigating between Oxford seminars and Brown’s trading club—how clothing becomes armor in the world of high finance. The suit is modern chainmail. “Wall Street pedigree. Goldman Sachs. He’s a financial advisor. Works closely with Dad.” Though “advisor” barely scratches the surface of Geoffrey’s role in the Moore empire.

“Is he from New York?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure where he was born. Lived in the city for a long time. I don’t remember the last time I had a casual conversation with Geoffrey. We have a professional relationship.”

“Your father brings that out in people. He’s ninety-two and living in the middle of nowhere, and I bet he still wears cufflinks and ties daily. The most expensive, finest custom suits, the best of everything.”

“You would know, right?”

I shouldn’t have said that. I sound like an asshole. She’ll hear it as me criticizing her outfit or digging into an old wound. Her clothing choices are a sore subject. When we were engaged, Dad disapproved of her outfit at a charity event, and he insisted he approve her garment choices for every event leading up to our wedding. Even though the dispute was between the two of them, her outfit choice became one more land mine I stepped on more times than I can count. A sincere comment about how beautiful she looked either earned a glare or questions about whether or not she should change.

She scowls, probably remembering those disagreements.

But she’s the one who brought up Dad’s wardrobe, and she’s dressed for business, too. “Is that why you dressed like that?”

“Like what?”

“Professionally.” She’s not any different than Geoffrey. She woke this morning, and instead of jeans and her running shoes, she’s back in a pantsuit with low square heels.

A red light flashes on the board.

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