Sophia
Sharon Littleton arrives three days later in a Mercedes that gleams like polished sin, all sleek lines and expensive paint that probably requires human sacrifice to maintain. I watch from the alpha house window as she unfolds from the driver's seat—legs that go on forever, wrapped in a pencil skirt tight enough to stop traffic, red heels that sink into gravel like she's claiming territory with each step.
"That's the accountant?" Lou appears beside me, coffee steaming in her hands. "Looks like she's auditioning for a perfume commercial."
Betty snorts from the kitchen doorway. "Or a porno."
The woman's blonde hair catches October sun, cascading in waves that probably require a team of stylists and products I've never heard of. Her blouse—if you can call it that—gapes open thre
