His grandniece was sitting cross-legged on the couch, poring over a bunch of files from the Miami PD, and he knew the autopsy report was in there. Part of him wanted to read it, and part of him didn’t. He felt undone by his conflicting feelings, so he said nothing and slumped into a chair.
“I just learned the fire decreased my net worth,” he announced, but he was staring at the reflection of the sun bouncing off the water in a birdbath outside. Nonetheless, he felt Cat look up at him.
“Harsh,” she said. “The paintings? In your studio?”
“Yup.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“Okay. I’m not.” There was a pause, and then she added: “I think most art is ridiculously overpriced anyway. I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, Uncle Mick, but eighteen-thousand for that big red splotchy thing you painted?”
Mick laughed. He should be offended, but on the contrary, he suddenly felt like he’d never loved his grandniece more. He thought about that dream of hers he’d walked into the first night in Ernes…
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