I hear the sound of her heels from halfway up the block. Who wears high heels on a street with more potholes than pavement, anyway? SHE does. Stopping right next to me, close enough to make my skin itch, she mirrors my stance, arms crossed over her chest, facing the building. I refuse to look. If I ignore her, maybe she’ll go away. Doubtful. Winchester Boyd is a hangnail on my soul. The current bane of my existence. And as of today at nine a.m., my employee.
