Alastair Carstairs Novels & Stories

She said, and he nodded in understanding. Alastair Cooper was a man in his mid-fifties. He had brown hair with a hint of grey strands, small and light blue eyes, and had wrinkles around his eyes. He was wearing a grey suit and a white shirt that was left unbuttoned at the top, and didn't have a tie. He had his wrists placed on the table, causing his shirt and jacket to roll down a bit, revealing his hairy hands and big expensive watch. His thin pale lips were pressed together as he assessed his daughter.

My heart stumbled as I stared at the two, rage filling my veins. I had met Alistair Pearson once or twice when I had still been one of Doctor Rogers's patients. He hadn't changed since then. He was wearing an impeccable, well-tailored suit, charcoal this time. His reddish hair was, as always, kept short, emphasizing all the sharp lines of his handsome face. Even the smirk remained the same. Only his green eyes now betrayed more than before. Or perhaps it was my eyes that could see more of his true, despicable nature.