"Come on, boys. We're playing till we drop tonight. Nobody leaves!"
……
Across the table, Caspar Lambert had a cigarette dangling from his lips, lazily sorting his tiles.
"Thaddeus Dickerson, what's gotten into you tonight? Normally you're home by eleven sharp, rubbing your wife's feet. It's past one in the morning. Aren't you afraid Beverly Fox's gonna make you kneel on bottle caps?"
Humphrey Finch chimed in from beside him. "Seriously, man. Your wife's gorgeous. All alone in that big empty bed, so lonely. Maybe we should call it a night so you can go home and take care of business?"
The moment those words left his mouth, every man at the table exchanged a knowing, filthy grin.
Ten minutes ago, I would've laughed it off as the usual dirty jokes between brothers. But now, Great-Grandfather Abbott's voice echoed through my mind, dripping with cold contempt.
"Boy, you see that red mark on Caspar's neck?"
"Your wife meets up with him all the time, using 'project meetings' as her cover. He's been making a fool of you for years!"
"And Humphrey. Look at the lighter in his hand. Isn't that the limited-edition one your wife claimed she lost last week?"