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
