My morning run subdues lingering unease from Wheaton"s company weekend only temporarily. To avoid glum, Monday morning faces, I hail a taxi and bury my face in the newspaper until the cab arrives at the office. Immediately, I sense doom when I enter Wheaton"s reception room, not even the picturesque view window view calms my nerves. I continue toward the ladies" room when sniffling from a stall halts me at the door. I waver to leave, then stand frozen when the cubicle door swings open, and Kayla exits with red-rimmed eyes. Never have I seen her cry. It takes a lot to c***k Kayla"s shell, so whatever"s wrong, it must be serious. “Kayla? Why are you crying?” My words cause more tears. I reach for a tissue and wipe dark mascara rolling down her cheeks.
“I"m sorry. I"m a mess,” she mumbles.
