34
Culverhouse hated texting, but right now he didn’t particularly want to speak to anyone. He selected Wendy’s contact details from his phonebook and typed out the message.
How long?
She’d know what he meant. He really couldn’t be bothered to type any more.
He took the flights of stairs a little more slowly on the way up, feeling his legs ache with every step as the sun dazzled him through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows on each level of the staircase. The grass outside looked so green and inviting, and he wished he could be out there, sitting on it.
Rounding the corner of the landing on the next floor, he continued his steps up just as his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Taking it out, he looked at the screen.
Not long. On way back. Hour maybe?
There you go, he thought. Much easie
