He turned to the stack of reviews again. He swept the whole mess onto the floor, in a fury but mindful of the scotch. “Misogynist my ass. They read, but not one of them fucking reads.” He poured another finger of scotch into the empty glass.
In the kitchen, Mary was making breakfast pancakes with Hadley when she heard the gunshot.
Hadley whispered, “Papa,” ran down the long hall, wrenched the door to the den open, and ran to the desk. Yelling now, “Papa, Papa,” she laid her small, warm hand on his grizzled cheek, where his head was slumped on the desk.
He lifted his head and blearily looked at Mary standing in the doorway. “He’s going to forget to check the gun for blanks only so many times,” she thought.