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at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning, wearing a navy blazer and the expression of a man prepared to be respected by furniture.
Our receptionist, Janelle, called me.
“Claire,” she said carefully, “there’s a Richard Whitaker here to see you.”
“Did he have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Tell him I’m unavailable.”
A pause.
“He says he’s your father.”
“I know who he is.”
Another continue reading …
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