Lyra
Ma’am, you have a delivery.
The receptionist’s voice filtered through the door as I was trying, and failing, to focus on the mountain of files on my desk. I looked up, my hand still clenched around the pen that hadn't moved in minutes.
A delivery?
I hadn’t ordered anything. Ever since I witnessed Frank’s death, I hadn’t been myself. I almost regretted coming in. I should have taken the day off.
But I hadn’t.
Now look at me—skittish, confused and a wreck. Every second, I looked over my shoulder, paranoid enough to think someone was watching me. The slightest creak of a door or even someone talking had me on high alert. I couldn’t even sort through files, and now someone had brought me a delivery.
Who?
“Come in,” I said, sitting up straighter.
The receptionist walked in, holdin
