And sitting squarely upon his haunches between Sophie’s chair and mine, his massive golden head held high, his amber eyes watching the monitor with silent, predatory discipline…
Was Barnaby.
Martin Collins let out an animalistic, strangulated whimper into his phone screen, his knees giving way completely, dropping him flat onto his shins in the snow on his own driveway:
*rattle-clank.*
“D-Daniel…?! Commander Mercer…?! Four-star naval crest…?! Daniel, please! Look at me! I am your father-in-law! We are family! You can’t do this to thirty-two members of your own wife’s bloodline!”
I leaned forward on the mahogany table, looking directly into the camera lens:
“You ceased to be my father-in-law three nights ago, Martin,” I spoke softly.
My voice had no civilian son-in-law’s hesitation left.
It carried forty decibels of compressed, sub-zero polar diamond that made Martin physically recoil from his smartphone:
“When you threw my daughter onto this very porch in fourteen-degree weather because she told you I was an honest man.”
“You told her to go live with her loser father.”
“You lifted your champagne glass and toasted my divorce as the best Christmas gift Claire ever gave herself.”
I picked up the four-inch antique solid-titanium surveyor’s compass transit key from the table blotter, letting the morning sun reflect off its fifty-six analog cryptographic notches:
*TINK.*
“You wanted to know why I never told you I owned the sixteen-point-nine-million-dollar company that paid your salaries, Martin?”
“Because eight years ago, Claire begged me to let you keep your pride.”
“She told me that if you knew your son-in-law was signing your paychecks, your ego would be destroyed.”
“I gave you eight years of mercy.”
“I gave you two hundred and forty thousand dollars a year.”
“I paid for Gregory’s boats, Bradley’s mortgage, and your country club dues.”
