REDT
he plot had almost been ruined.
After running a bunch of errands for Sasha that felt more like an excuse to get Red out of the house—CVS for nail clippers, Whole Foods for bottled water, Sephora for hair crème, Red had returned with Sasha’s lunch order: a cashew smoothie and vegan burger, no bun.
Sasha was asleep, so Red snuck downstairs into Peter’s office to hunt for the passcode to his private bank information. She was rifling through opened Morgan Stanley statements in Peter’s desk when the doorbell sounded its long, cheerful tone, like theatre bells. Red stuffed the statements back inside the folder, slammed the filing cabinet shut, and raced down the hallway.
When she opened the front door, Emiko stood in front of her.
Red couldn’t find any words.
“Red?” Emiko’s startled e
