Twelve
“Heellooo, Lydia!” a pair of male voices shouted through the intercom.
Something in the background yipped.
“I’m ba-a-ack,” one of the voices sing-songed.
I pressed a palm to my forehead, certain I was feverish in explanation of this hallucination. Hadn’t I just sent Phelps home a few short hours ago? A quick glance at the kitchen clock confirmed my suspicion that it was after two.
Clearly I was not meant to sleep tonight.
“Wake up, my muse,” Ferrero’s thickly-accented voice cried. “No sleep for the creative.”
When a sharp pinch to my thigh and counting to ten did not wake me from this nightmare, I relented. I pressed the buzzer.
No way I was fetching those two. Whatever the reason for their visit. Of course I wasn’t going to turn my boss away from my doorstep in the middle o
