Myra
Thorne’s plow moved on down the street, the strobe lights fading into the white mist. He’d left a trail of salt and a bad taste in my mouth, but his talk of lawsuits was just noise—a desperate man’s attempt to sound relevant. He wanted to annoy, he wanted to get under our skin, he wanted us to know he was still circling like a vulture, waiting for the business to die.
"Of course we are going to salt the steps, you i***t," I muttered, my breath hitching in the cold. "Just like every other responsible business owner."
I looked at Tony. He was leaning on his shovel, his shoulders dusted with snow. He looked steady, like a mountain that had no intention of moving.
"We need to get to the basement," he said. "If the power is going to stay out, we need the big generator or we lose the wa
