Oliver was knee-deep in paperwork, headphones on, kicked back in his chair when he chuckled, "Finley, did you get kicked in the head by a mule or something?"
"Oliver, Shea's saying Josie's the one who worked on her leg. Josie poisoned her, so she's gotta be the one who can fix it. Shea's still so young; how's she gonna live her life stuck in a wheelchair?"
"What's that got to do with me?"
Oliver's tone was as cold as ice as he replied, "Finley, your brain really must've taken a mule's kick if you can't tell friends from foes."
"Oliver, Shea's practically like a sister to you. How can you be so heartless?"
"Finley, for the last time, Shea's mess has nothing to do with our Josie. She dug her own grave. And Shea's no saint either; you really need to get your eyes checked."
Finley was fuming, but no matter how he pleaded, Oliver wouldn't budge.
"Finley, since you've chosen to side with Shea, you'd better stick with her and don’t come crying if you regret today’s choice."
Hearing Oliver's icy tone, Finley knew he was angry.
In a low voice, Finley said, "Oliver, we're brothers. I still believe in Shea. Can't you just talk to Josie, see if she can help?"
"Josie doesn't know anything about antidotes or fixing Nichola's leg."
Oliver hung up and stood by the window, his eyes full of disdain.



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