Sometimes the closed door hides a monster.

And sometimes, though we are trained by a hard world to expect otherwise, it hides only another human being as afraid as you are, hoping you will not run before he can explain.

“Arthur,” I managed, my voice barely a whisper, “what are you talking about?

We had an agreement.

A marriage of convenience.

I care for you, my son gets his surgery, your estate is protected from your children.

That was all.” He walked to his great mahogany desk and unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket, suddenly looking every one of his eighty-one years, and the gravity in his voice gave way to something gentler and far more tired.