“In,” came the raspy reply. She stepped inside the spacious office, her shoes sinking into plush carpet. The lights blazed, circles of gold and lighter yellow. It painted the office in homey tones, touched on the dark wood furniture and gave it a warm sheen. Given the amount of time Laurence Lauderdale spent in this office, it might as well feel like home. “Dad,” she began reproachfully, only to cover her mouth with her digital reader as the tall, frail man behind the desk raised a gnarled hand. “No, we’ll need more than that if it’s going to make a dent,” he said, beckoning her in further. But he wasn’t talking to her. His desk-mounted comm lights glowed blue, and he tilted his head to the side as he always did when a comm mic was clipped to his large ear. Kayleigh muffled a sigh. The man never rested. How he’d managed to live well into his eighties was a secret she hoped was genetic.
