Page 11 of Old Money, Deadly Secrets

Dog shrugged, then nodded at a half-empty bag of pretzels perched on one of the boxes. “Food. Edible. Coffee. Lots of coffee. Don’t care about gourmet. Just sustenance.” He then pointed toward the utility closet. “And I need a washer and dryer in there.”

Margaret continued her mental checklist, then thought of the stark white floors. “And the flooring, Doctor? We have a clean slate. Hardwood, perhaps, for a classic, sophisticated feel? Or plush carpeting for warmth and sound dampening?” She pictured herself sweeping across glossy dark wood, then tripping over a loose rug. No, no loose rugs. Too clumsy.

Dog looked at the pristine concrete floor, then at Margaret, his brow furrowed in utter bewilderment. “Flooring? It’s just that, a floor. Whatever’s easiest to clean. I walk on it.”

Margaret stared from the cavernous, empty apartment to the man whose idea of “well-appointed” was a bed, a washer and dryer, and a bag of pretzels. She saw the deep lines etched around his eyes, the slight slump of his shoulders despite his imposing frame. He wasn’t being difficult; he was just genuinely oblivious to anything beyond raw utility.

“Right,” she said, pulling a small notebook and a pen from her designer purse. “Functional. Edible. Sustenance. Laundry. Clean floors. I understand completely.” She scribbled furiously, her internal notes far more elaborate than the sparse words she’d just heard. This man needs a home. He just doesn’t know how to ask for it.

She looked up at him, a flicker of a genuine smile touching her lips. “Consider it handled, Dr. Berkshire. I will have a proposal for your approval within the week. And I assure you, it will be far more comfortable than an air mattress.”

Dog grunted, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a sleek Platinum VISA. He held it up with a flat expression. “Don’t bother with the details. Just use this.”

Margaret stared at the card, then back at him, blinking in disbelief. Her fingers hovered just inches from it before she hesitated and stepped back. The unexpectedness of the gesture left her momentarily off balance. Why this sudden generosity? Is it trust, or something else? Her pulse quickened, a mix of uncertainty and reluctant gratitude settling in.

At her hesitation, Dog pushed the card into her hand. “Just take the damn card. There’s no limit.”

The card felt unusually substantial in her palm, as if it carried a tangible symbol of something larger, perhaps responsibility. She wanted to protest, to assert some control, but the firmness in his voice brooked no argument.

He shook his head and turned to head back downstairs. As he limped away, Margaret stood in the silent apartment, surrounded by echoes. The task before her was monumental. Furnishing a high-end home for Charles had been about status and appearances. Furnishing this space for this gruff, exhausted man and his broken friends felt different. It felt like building a refuge. A home. And for the first time since she’d left Richmond, Margaret felt a thrilling, terrifying sense of purpose that was entirely her own.

8 - DOG

The faint jingle of the front door closing was the last sound Dog heard before the clinic fell silent. He walked back to his office, his limp feeling heavier than usual. It had been an exhausting, mind-numbing day of overseeing plumbing and electrical installs, followed by hours battling vendor contracts. But now, all that stood out was the ghost of a woman in an expensive sweater, talking about “seamless guest experiences.”

He surveyed the room. Chaos, yes. He frowned. The teetering stacks of catalogs were no longer quite so precarious. The half-eaten protein bar was gone. The SEAL challenge coin, which he’d absentmindedly left on a textbook, was now nestled securely in the small divot of his desk organizer. A small, neat pile of what he recognized as “immediate action” invoices had appeared on the corner of his monitor.

It was still a disaster, but it was an organized disaster. He could almost discern the method in the madness. Margaret Fletcher. The woman had been here for perhaps an hour, and she’d already begun to impose order on his world.

He shook his head, a wry smile touching his lips. Then he remembered the background check. And the sheer, unadulterated terror that had flashed across her face. He hadn’t liked it. Not one bit.

He realized now that he never even got her phone number. Without it, there was no way to contact her, no way to send a text. Damn it. He needed to get that number before she left for the day. He hadn’t asked if she even had a phone.

Damn it.

His gut clenched. He’d just tasked her with an impossible job and effectively told her she was under a microscope, all while knowing she was running from something that made her look like she’d seen a ghost. Letting her wander off to some anonymous motel on Route 250 felt irresponsible. Like leaving a wounded man exposed. His protective instincts, finely honed over years in the Teams, screamed at him. And what if she’s still married? The thought, sharp and unwelcome, cut through the noise of his fatigue. He was a doctor, a protector, not some hormone-driven idiot.

He was already tired, already committed to Mountain View Farms for dinner. But he had to make sure. There were only a couple places in town where she could stay.

Dog grabbed his keys, then paused, his gaze falling on the door leading upstairs to his apartment. Empty. Unfurnished. Her assignment. A solution clicked into place, pragmatic and efficient, just the way he liked it.

He jogged out of the office, his limp more pronounced, and found Margaret just outside the clinic doors, already walking towards her car. Her shoulders were hunched against the evening chill, her purse still clutched tight.

“Miss Fletcher!” he called out.

She turned, startled, her eyes wide. “Dr. Berkshire? Is something amiss?”

“Where are you staying tonight?” he asked, cutting straight to the point.

She hesitated, her gaze dropping. “I…I have arrangements.”

He recognized a falsehood when it presented itself. “No, Miss Fletcher, you do not possess accommodations of any merit, certainly nothing secure,” he said, his tone adopting a decidedly more urbane cadence. “That establishment on Route 250, I must advise you to forgo it entirely.” He gestured toward the clinic. “The apartment above possesses all requisite amenities, sturdy walls, a proper roof, running water, and it stands vacant. You require proper quarters for the night, and I, in turn, require your presence here promptly at first light to commence the work still necessary on this building.” He indicated the entire structure with a sweeping motion. “Consider it an integral component of your ‘trial run.’ You might well begin with the master bedroom in the morning and determine its suitability beyond that of a mere air mattress.”

Her eyes darted between him and the building, a complex mixture of exhaustion, relief, and deep-seated apprehension warring on her face. “Are you offering me a place to stay?”

“I am informing you of your accommodations,” he said, his tone deliberately gruff in an effort to conceal the small victory he felt. “I shall be retiring to Mountain View Farms for the evening, as I shall be staying there, thus the apartment will be entirely at your disposal. You face a formidable task ahead, and it is imperative that you be well-rested.” And I need to know where you are.

She chewed on her lip, then nodded, a faint, weary smile gracing her lips. “Understood, Dr. Berkshire. Thank you.”