Chapter 18 : Scotch and Skellingtons, Part Deux

Amber went to the cupboard, poured me a glass of scotch and sat it in front of me. I downed the entire glass in one and pushed the glass back to her across the island counter.

 

“Another please,” I croaked.

 

Amber looked apprehensive.

 

“Are you sure?” she asked. “You still have to go to work.”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

While Amber poured, I picked up the next item from the yellow envelope. It was a ragged, faded envelope addressed to my father. It was post marked December 1978.

 

Amber handed me my second glass of liquid sanity and I drank it down. Bolstered by artificial sense of bravado that comes from drinking fine 15 year scotch, I emptied the tattered envelope of its secrets.

 

 

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