Stern passed Harding’s secretary, his glance flicking over her long enough to see her slight grimace warning him all was not well in the inner sanctum. He wasn’t surprised to find the room dark, the curtains shut against the world slipping from Harding’s control.
He heard the clink of ice in a glass and turned away from the desk. As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he saw Harding stretched out on the couch, his tie loose, his mouth drooping in a petulant pout. On the bar, the brandy decanter was nearly empty. On the floor next to him his glass lay on its side, the melting ice dripping onto the carpet.
He knew Harding stood on the thin edge between madness and sanity. Had wondered what—or maybe it was who—would push him over that edge. If Harding could have mastered himself, if he
