Trouble Is What I Do

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“Mr. McGill?” Mardi Bitterman said over the intercom that connects her desk at the front of our office complex to mine at the far end.

I lease a very large office space, but as of yet only Mardi and sometimes my son Twill work there with me. She’s the detective agency’s secretary-receptionist and also the human barometer that helps maintain my moral bearings in a world where sin is reflex and kindness a quick death. Mardi has firsthand experience with the evil that men visit upon children and absolutely no fear of losing her own life or witnessing the death of someone who deserves it. In my opinion she’s a saint; in hers, I and my son are saviors.

Twill is another thing altogether. Though he also understands the rising tide of depravity and violence, my son is like a futuristic fish in those waters, a sleek metallic shark evolved beyond other species. He is the youngest of the three children who call me father. My wife claims that he’s mine, but I know that only the eldest boy, Dimitri, is of my blood. Not that I mind. I love them all.

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