Cora
I was halfway through Riley’s bedtime story when my phone buzzed. I glanced at it quickly, trying not to lose my spot.
It was a message from Kingston.
“Arrange tomorrow’s lab inspection,” the message said. “Have the schedule finalized by morning.”
No greeting. No "please." Just a cold directive like always. Strictly businesses.
But I guess I could have assumed it would be this terse. We hadn’t been exactly friendly since he had overheard me calling him a capitalist pig to Rock.
I was just grateful that he hadn’t confronted me about it. Yet.
I finished the story, tucked Riley in, and promised I’d be back to check on him later. Then I brewed a cup of coffee, pulled out my laptop, and opened every file I could find related to Kingston’s previous inspection preferences.
I pored
