“Do you want to open it?” I say, passing the envelope back to her. “Kind of no?” she says. Her face twists up as she goes on, “I mean, it’s kind of sketchy, right? What if it’s anthrax or something? Hang on.” Her eyes narrow on me. “This isn’t from you, is it? Did you send me anthrax?” My lips twitch at this. “I did not, no. I don’t think I have access to anthrax.” “Because you had no problem letting me plummet to my death yesterday on those stairs,” she points out. “I feel like if you’d plummeted to your death, you wouldn’t be yammering so much right now,”
