Twenty-Four
The List
My front door whooshes open. “Good morning, sunshine.”
I’m hunched over a cup of black coffee at the kitchen counter, still in my robe and stocking feet, tired eyes heavy, stomach less achy but still grumbling at me. “Why are you here …”
Rupert holds aloft a stainless steel travel mug. “I’ve brewed you some tea from fresh ginger. Why are you not ready? It’s after nine. You are already late for work.”
I groan. “I need a sick day.”
“Then you should have negotiated one in your contract,” Rupert chides. “Quick, quick, there is fire afoot.”
The nervous jitters enliven in my chest. “Wait—what fire?”
“As they say in your beloved Netflix dramas, I’ll tell you on the way.”
