Maxwell Peary, looking exhausted, was sitting on a sofa.
He had been a step too late; Yancy... hadn't waited for him.
"Tomorrow is his funeral. Will you go with me?"
Nia Mitchell stood frozen, her face pale.
This sudden news left her utterly bewildered.
She hadn't had many interactions with Yancy Hastings, but she was well aware of the relationship between Yancy Hastings and Maxwell Peary.
It was an inseparable friendship, much like hers with Charles Northwood and Fiona Sutton.
"Okay, Uncle, I'll go with you."
She walked over to Maxwell Peary's side, sat down, and reached out to take his cold, large hand.
"Uncle, please don't be sad."
Maxwell Peary had always concealed his emotions well. Even with something this significant, his only outward signs were a poor complexion and a hoarse voice.
He must be terribly sad inside.
Seeing him like this, Nia Mitchell didn't know what to do.
"I'm fine. I just need to rest for a bit. You should go and deliver the food now."
...
