Page 68 of The Sculptor

Clearly, being a team player isn’t a gene the Potters have.

“You know a Dr. Moroney, don’t you?” Vance points at the screen, and I don’t bother walking over. I’ve combed over that death certificate enough to know a Dr. Lance Moroney signed my son’s death certificate.

“I know a Thomas Moroney,” Astor muses, coming around to view the document on the screen where Vance has accessed the electronic medical records system. “Maybe this is his father?”

“Call him,” Vance snaps. “Ask him who the fuck signed this and where we can find him.”

Astor chuckles and claps him on the shoulder. “It’s Christmas Eve, brother.”

“And?” Vance returns. “He’s a doctor. He’s used to being on call for the holidays.”

Something I didn’t realize I was missing stirs in my stomach, soothing the ache.

I had been harboring so much pain, so many secrets that I had hidden away from my brothers, that it had worn away at my soul.

“What the fuck are you standing there for, Duke? No one here thinks you’re pretty.”

Vance’s tone snaps me out of my haze, and I blink, bringing my focus back to him.

“Yeah, hello.” He waves his hand in front of my face. “Grab your coat. We don’t have time for any more hugs, if that’s what you’re waiting on.”

And he’s back.

But something has shifted.

This is the brother who bitched that I slept on his couch in college but made sure he left me dinner in the microwave. This is the brother that complained about my late shifts delivering pizzas but waited up so he could study with me.

This is the brother that fought for my education—for my future.

And here he is doing it again with no questions asked.

Like I knew he would.

Because that’s who we are.

Family.

“Vance, be serious,” Astor tries reasoning once more. “I’ll call Dr. Moroney after the holidays.” He plucks the keys from Vance’s desk, ensuring that he doesn’t take off on his own, just in case. “Today, let’s just enjoy spending Christmas Eve together—as a family.”

Vance scoffs. “Easy for you to say. Your daughter is in the next room. What about Duke? You would have him go one more minute without his son? One more Christmas?”

Talking to Vance is always challenging, but Astor is used to being the voice of reason. “No, I wouldn’t want him to miss another Christmas without his son. But”—he looks at me with a fierceness in his eyes—“I can promise this will be the last Christmas you’ll spend without him.”

Vance narrows his eyes. “Touching,” he says, sounding more like Remington, “but that’s not good enough.”

He ushers Astor to the door, throwing it open. “Go play with the kids,” he tells him. “Ask Remington what Santa brought him.” He rolls his eyes like it annoyed him to actually buy the kid a gift. “FYI: It’s an X-Box so he can play with your dong-hating girlfriend onlineat homeand not on the office computer like the shitty employee he is.”

Remington is far from a shitty employee. He and Halle run that office better than anyone we’ve ever hired.

But Vance would never admit it. Instead, he shoves Astor out the door, but Astor catches himself. “Remington talked to Keys?”

Vance looks at me and shakes his head. “Go handle your girl, Astor.”

“What are you two going to do?”

Vance turns back at me, and nothing but determination is in his eyes. “We’re gonna call Harrison. It’s time we had a chat.”

Duke

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