Dead By Midnight

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Glen Jamison looked every one of his fifty-two years, his fair hair flecked with silver, his aristocratic face mournful, his six-foot-two frame too thin. He hunched at the desk in his study and felt a sense of panic, like the beginnings of a fire flickering at his feet then billowing to an inferno. How much longer could the firm go on?

There wasn’t enough money coming in. The appointment book had too many empty spots. Maybe they shouldn’t dump Kirk even though cutting him should save at least a hundred thousand a year. He hated looking into Kirk’s blue eyes, which held the hurt puzzlement of a kicked dog. Of course, Kirk was young. Not yet thirty. He was a brilliant lawyer. He’d find a job. But he wouldn’t find a job on the island. There were only two other firms and neither intended to expand. Not in times like these. Kirk needed to stay on Broward’s Rock. Glen tried not to think how desperately Kirk needed to be here.

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