Lizbella was already in the break room when I arrived at work, perched on the counter like the boss she is.
She was sipping coffee out of a chipped mug that read, Therapy Is Cheaper Than Murder. Her wild dark curls framed her face, and her expression was as stormy as the dark brew in her hands.
“Morning,” I said cautiously, setting my bag on the small table.
Lizbella didn’t reply. Instead, she raised an eyebrow and took another sip, her silence louder than any greeting.
“Okay,” I muttered, sliding into the chair across from her. “Go ahead. Say whatever it is you’re dying to say.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re an idiot.”
I let out a sharp laugh, more out of disbelief than amusement. “Good morning to you too.”
“I mean it, Briar.” Lizbella hopped off the counter, her boots thudding again
