Page 10 of Old Money, Deadly Secrets

“Link lives for this. I’ll get him on it. Anything else?”

“Yeah. The apartment upstairs. Told her it’s part of her job to furnish it, stock the kitchen. Master and guest master. See if she can handle a real project or if she folds under pressure.”

“Got it. We’ll bring her into the fold, if necessary. And you?” Bear’s concern cut through his gruff tone. “You getting any sleep on that air mattress?”

Dog hesitated, then spoke with a note of casual courtesy. “Mind if I crash at the Mountain for a few nights? Give her the apartment to herself.”

Bear laughed, “You know you’re always welcome there, the kids love it when you stay. No need to ask.”

Dog ended the call, stepping out into the bright afternoon sun. His eyes swept over the surrounding woods, then the road ahead. He was giving her the job and a place to stay, a safe haven disguised as a colossal task. But he wasn’t a fool. He would find out exactly what monsters were chasing Margaret Fletcher. And then, he was going to decide how to deal with them.

7 - MARGARET

The office was, indeed, a disaster zone. Dog’s gruff dismissal, his limp, and the sheer volume of paper had left her reeling. But as the echo of his footsteps faded down the hall, Margaret took a deep breath, pushing down the prickle of fear that still lingered from the “background check” comment. Mabel’s words came back to her: He needs someone to organize the chaos. And Charles’s cruel sneer: You wouldn’t understand, darling, it’s far too complex.

Well, Charles could go to hell. This chaos was a problem she could solve.

She stepped inside, surveying the scene. Stacks of vendor catalogs teetered like Jenga towers. Receipts for what appeared to be industrial-sized bags of nails lay intermingled with invoices for surgical-grade sterilization equipment. Blueprints for the hydrotherapy pool curled precariously on top of what looked like a personal bank statement. And underneath it all, partially visible, was a small, crudely drawn caricature of a snarling dog wearing a tiny medical cross on its ear. She almost smiled.

“Right,” she murmured to the empty room, rolling up the sleeves of her cashmere sweater. “Baseline. Inventory. Categorization.”

She started with a stack of loose papers on the edge of the desk, only to discover it wasn’t a stack at all, but a single sheet, folded a hundred times over, tucked around a half-eaten protein bar. The next “stack” turned out to be a heavy chemistry textbook, its pages dog-eared, with a small, tarnished SEAL challenge coin resting on its cover. This wasn’t an office; it was an archaeological dig.

Margaret spent the next hour in a meticulous, albeit slow, dance of triage. She found empty coffee cups filled with forgotten nuts and bolts, a single, mismatched tactical glove, and a surprisingly detailed spreadsheet for organic vegetable farming mixed in with medical supply lists. It was frustrating, bewildering, and, if she was honest, far more engaging than any gala she’d ever planned. Every item told a story, hinting at the complex, disparate worlds Dog inhabited.

But the apartment. That was a bigger project. She needed to see the space. She needed dimensions, an understanding of the flow, and most importantly, she needed Dog’s input on how he envisioned his “living quarters.”

Taking another deep breath, Margaret ventured out, following the distant rumble of voices. She found Dog by the back entrance, a group of burly men around him, all clad in work boots and various stages of construction dust. They looked like a particularly intimidating rugby team.

“Dr. Berkshire,” she called, channeling her best I-need-to-interrupt-this-very-important-conversation tone, the one she used to employ on Charles’s overzealous bodyguards.

Dog turned, his expression still gruff, a smear of dirt on his cheek. The men around him glanced at her, then back at him, their expressions a mix of curiosity and something akin to awe.

“Yes, Miss Fletcher?” he grunted.

“I’ve commenced the initial assessment of your office,” she began, standing with the quiet confidence she’d developed over the years. Her posture was straight and assured, her sleeves brushing lightly against Barkley’s chest as he looked down by just a few inches over her five-foot-eight frame. Despite the difference, his broad form barely seemed to overshadow her tall, aristocratic bearing, an elegance honed by both upbringing and years of steady resolve. “It presents, shall we say, unique challenges, but I believe we can establish a functioning system. However, to address the second component of my assignment, your apartment. I require immediate access to the space and your specific furnishing parameters.”

Barkley stared at her. His gaze flickered from her composed face to the raw construction surrounding them and then back again. He let out a sigh that seemed to come from the deepest parts of his exhausted soul.

“Fine,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair. “Follow me.”

He led her through a labyrinth of hallways and up a wide, unfinished staircase. The door to his apartment was at the very end. He pushed it open, and Margaret stepped into a vast, echoing cavern. It ran the entire length and width of the clinic below, divided into three large rooms, a fully plumbed kitchen space with new cabinets but no appliances, and a separate utility closet clearly wired for a washer and dryer. All the structural work was done, the walls painted a stark, neutral white. But it was utterly bare. The only “furniture” was a deflated air mattress in the middle of the largest room, surrounded by a scattering of cardboard boxes.

Margaret tried not to gasp. It was worse than she’d imagined, and yet, paradoxically, full of potential. The kind of empty space that swallowed hope, or, if she played her cards right, could blossom into a home.

“So,” Dog said, gesturing around with a sweep of his hand, his voice flat. “This is it. Master bedroom, other master, then what will be a small office. Make it functional. That’s all that matters.”

Margaret swallowed, trying to sound professional. “Functional. Of course. For the master bedroom, what are your preferences? A king-sized bed, surely? Perhaps a comfortable reading nook? A well-appointed dresser, nightstands…”

Dog cut her off with a wave of his hand. “A bed. Just a bed. Anything that isn’t the sands of the desert. Big enough to fit me without folding in half. Doesn’t have to be fancy. No air mattress. No reading nooks. Don’t read in bed. And a place to put clothes. A closet will do.”

Margaret blinked. “But, it is a master bedroom. One would expect it to have some presence. Perhaps a custom headboard? A chaise lounge for quiet reflection?”

Dog frowned and glanced down at the deflated air mattress folded in the corner of the room. He rubbed the back of his neck before looking back up, meeting her eyes with a dry, tired expression.

“Miss Fletcher, I need a place to collapse. I don’t reflect. I sleep. And the guest master needs the same.” He gestured toward the mattress with a slight nod. “A bed. Maybe a nightstand. For my visitors.” His voice was flat, but his gaze lingered just a moment longer on the doorway.

Margaret’s mind reeled. Visitors? Plural? She steadied herself and pressed on, trying to regain control of the conversation. “And the kitchen?” She gestured toward the empty, yet inviting space. “Culinary needs? Do you entertain frequently? Specific appliances? A fully stocked pantry with gourmet staples, perhaps?”