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What kind of chump tries to jump out the window when he’s got an office like this? What an idiot.
“Hello, Mr. Vice President,” Krista giggles.
“Blake?” I tear my eyes away from the window. My boss’s secretary, Stacie, is standing at the open door to my office, her fist poised to rap on the doorframe to get my
attention. And she’s got my attention. In that skirt—yes, holy crap, she has my attention.
As I turn away from the window and follow Stacie out of the office, it doesn’t even occur to me that in the next five minutes, my whole life will come crashing down.
Single upstairs bedroom available immediately in
Upper West Side brownstone on a quiet tree-lined street. Bedroom is fully furnished and has two large windows and lots of closet space. Large shared kitchen, dining area, and living room. Subway adjacent. No pets, no parking provided.
They shake hands, but a split second after their palms make contact, Quillizabeth yanks her hand away as if she’s been scalded. She stumbles back, her hands trembling.
“I…” Quillizabeth’s voice has gone suddenly hoarse. “I actually have to go. This place…it’s too small. I won’t be renting it after all.”
“He’s going to kill you,” the older woman blurts out. “Blake is going to kill you,
“He’s going to stab you with a kitchen knife.” Quillizabeth points a shaky finger at the rug beneath our feet. “It’s going to happen right here. I saw a vision of him crouching over your body, watching you bleed to death.”
“I’ve never done anything to make you distrust me,” I point out. And that’s true. Well, as far as she knows.
Whitney turns to us, her face glowing. “I love it. I don’t know if you have anyone else interested, but I’m interested. Very interested.”
Krista arches an eyebrow at me. She’s asking my permission to offer Whitney the room.
“We do? You mean, we can’t just…flush her?”
“I…” The older woman’s voice is hoarse. “I actually have to go. This place…it’s too small. I won’t be renting it after all.”
