The foyer’s marble floor was quiet and cool under Carson's pricey leather shoes. He had been back in the country for two days but he had stayed in a cold impersonal hotel room both nights.
He had deliberately and strategically retreated from the oppressive ‘welcome home’ that he knew was waiting for him.
The mansion's quiet now felt more like emptiness than tranquility as the heavy elaborate front door clicked shut behind him.
He appreciated it. In addition to Bridget's pink, absurd convertible, his mothers black sedan was missing from the three-car garage.
He walked, his steps heavy and tired, shrugging out of his suit jacket.
He took the grand staircase two steps at a time after tossing the jacket over the mahogany banister.
The mansion was usually a hive of activity whether i
