We use cookies
When you visit our website, if you give your consent, we will use cookies to allow us to collect data for aggregated statistics to improve our service and remember your choice for future visits. Cookie Policy & Privacy Policy
Dear Reader, we use the permissions associated with cookies to keep our website running smoothly and to provide you with personalized content that better meets your needs and ensure the best reading experience. At any time, you can change your permissions for the cookie settings below.
If you would like to learn more about our Cookie, you can click on Privacy Policy.
Your cookies settings
Strictly cookie settingsAlways Active
Chapter 8
Tate’s flat wasn’t anything spectacular. Despite mounds of money in his checking and healthy savings accounts, he lived a moderate life. His furniture looked secondhand, and the walls needed a fresh coat of paint. Some of the tile in his kitchen started to lift, and the toilet only flushed on the second try. Most thought him an irresponsible flat owner. Others called him bizarrely perfect, a compliment to every tea dealer in the country. Preparation for a dinner with his father came easy for him: meatballs in sauce over a mound of pasta; one of Alfred’s favorite dishes. Toss in some garlic bread just because he found himself addicted to carbohydrates, like all the Blackwoods in his family. Just as he was about to sit down to his meal, his father knocked two times on the flat’s front door
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD
