As much as I hate to think about Edwin dying, he’s fucking old. He’s eighty-seven and has about eight hundred different health issues. Just about the only thing he can do is take a lap around the mansion once a day for exercise. He uses a walker, and it takes him about half a century to get from his bed to his bedroom door, but the last time I tried to get him a wheelchair he threw his dentures at me. Took them right out of his mouth and hit me in the forehead with them.
