Paige Penner was an attractive sixty-year-old with few lines and a strong, square face. Silvery highlights were strategically placed throughout thick shoulder-length, seal-gray waves. Gold half-rimmed frames were perched on a roman nose. Thin lips, sporting coral lipstick, drew into a taut line as she finished scanning documents for a second time. With a soft sigh, she slid them back into an old folder.
Sach and I sat in black vinyl armchairs before an unremarkable fake-wood desk. The small office held only one personal item: a photo of a chubby cat sporting a made-to-order Hawaiian Warriors cap and lounging on a rather sumptuous looking kitty bed. Six-year-old Percival Puddy-Tat (yes, that was his name per Paige) was one pampered feline.
She looked from Sach to me, and a semi-smile pull
