The Third Client

Twenty-five-year scotch crashes from crystal decanter into marbled glass, spilling up over the side beneath Sean Hannity’s shaky hand. He waits until the level rises nearly to the rim before yanking the glass up, carrying it to the Corinthian leather chair in front of the fire. He’s barely got his legs crossed before the door clicks open.

“No knock?!” Sean Hannity shouts, until he sees the face of his wife appear from behind the polished wood. His face changes, but doesn’t soften.

She seems as if she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t want to have to.

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