TANISHA
Christof’s office was colder than usual, temperature-wise and spiritually. The man loved his thermostat like he loved his money. At subarctic levels. I stood in front of his desk with my tablet, rattling off his schedule for the day like a malfunctioning Siri.
“…and at four-thirty, the site briefing. They asked if you’d prefer virtual or—”
“Physical,” he said without looking from his computer.
Of course. Let the peasants tremble in his presence.
I took a breath. “Noted. That’s everything on your agenda.”
He didn’t acknowledge that. Christof rarely acknowledged anything I said unless it benefited him directly. He tapped his pen twice, leaned back in his leather chair, and then—
“Actually,” he said, eyes lifting to me, “there’s one more thing I need handled.”
There was al
