A fortnight. A goddamn fortnight, and nothing. Not even one glimpse of Cavin. Footsteps passed by the open door to his study. He looked up in time to catch sight of slim shoulders and a dark mop of hair. Dropping the pen, he pushed from his desk. There was one person in this house who had information on Cavin, and it was about time Benjamin pressed for answers. No more allowing Sam to dodge his questions. It hadn’t helped that Benjamin had been reluctant to outright ask after Cavin—he’d only nudged around the subject, not wanting Sam to wonder why Benjamin was so interested in his brother. But a damn fortnight had passed and he was beyond tired of waiting for Cavin to call. Hell, he hated feeling so powerless. Being reduced to simply waiting. And visiting that damn hell. All for naught. He found Sam on his knees in the entrance hall, a scrub brush in hand and a bucket of water beside him.
