Simply Cheris. . .

Solomon was pissed by Clara’s cool demeanor when she walked into his office. She sat across from his desk without an invitation to sit down and crossed her long legs. Before he married Kandace, he would’ve been struck by her quiet beauty, café au lait brown skin, cropped curly hair and sparkling brown eyes. Through his married eyes, her figure, which reminded him of a figure 8, was just all right. Nowhere near as exquisite as his wife’s. But that was neither here nor there. What in the hell did she want? “You got five minutes,” he growled. “Mr. Crawford, Carmen De La Croix was a woman with serious mental issues,” she began. “And I know she caused you and your family a lot of pain but . . .” He threw his hand up. “She tried to kill my wife and me – but her brain was defective so I’m supposed to give a fuck?” “At least let me tell her story. She deserves to have some sympathy.” “I’m not Mick Jagger. I have no sympathy for the devil or her minions. Why is this story so import...

Solomon Crawford pounded on his desk. Who in the hell was Clara Flowers. Fields. Whatever. Why was she bringing this shit up again? Really, who gave a damn about Carmen and her insane ass? She was dead. New York Daily Observer was a tabloid rag anyway. Was this the only way those hacks could sell papers? “Mr. Crawford,” his assistant said over the intercom. “You have a guest.” “Does this guest have an appointment?” “She said no but you would want to see her. It’s Clara Fields.” He muttered a string of curse words that would shame a sailor. “I don’t want to see her.” “Mr. Crawford,” an unknown voice, which he assumed was Clara’s, said. “I have some information about Carmen De La Croix that I think you should know.” “Why don’t you print it in your next installment of the Carmen Chronicles?! “he boomed. “Mr. Crawford, you really should talk to me in private about this.” “Fu—You know what, come on in. I have a few things I’d like to say to you in private as well.”