KNOX
Mara called me.
Not to the shop, not through Grayson, not by text — she called, which meant something had reached the threshold where she felt it required real-time conversation.
"The projections for the second site," she said, when I picked up.
"Good morning to you too."
"It's eleven. The projections." She moved past pleasantries with the efficiency of someone who'd identified them as non-load-bearing. "Riley's been looking at a space in the Beacon Hill neighborhood. She hasn't said anything to you because she's still deciding whether she wants to decide."
"I know about the space," I said. I'd seen the listing in her email — not intentionally, she'd had it open on the kitchen laptop and I'd seen the address and recognized the category.
"You haven't said anything to her."
"
