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I don’t get homeuntil past eight o’clock.
My apartment building has been through a world war, the hippie era, and probably the meteor that killed the dinosaurs, if the mold on the stairs is anything to go by. The stuff thrives in the muggy atmosphere.
The elevator’s out of order again, too, so I’m forced to climb the stairs to my unit on the top floor.
You might wonder how I make it without passing out cold.
So do I.
But I’ve signed a two-year lease on this place and rent hasn’t skyrocketed as much as other places in the city the past few years, so I count my meager blessings.
Inside, I toss my keys on the counter with a sigh and open the fridge, looking for water. I’m surrounded by paperwork and bills on the counter.
Water first, then wine.
Today’s definitely a wine day.
A scratching sound in the corner draws my attention.
“Still at it, huh?” I smile when I see him.
Catness paws at the same hole in the wall he was working on this morning. Probably from the mouse he’s been after forever.
Get a cat, they said.They’ll deal with rodents foryou, they said.
The big lazy tabby mostly uses his mouser skills for show. The last time he actually caught a mouse, he dropped it in my lap as a gift for his hunting-challenged mama.
Fun times.
“Whatever you do, keep it out of the bedroom. You hear me?” I say firmly.
Catness just gives me a yawn and a dramatic stretch, flicking his tail.
It’s been a day and I’m so not interested in ending it in a mouse panic.
“Let’s get this over with. First thing’s first…” I don’t bother pouring my wine into a glass and just chug it straight from the bottle as I grab Dexter’s envelope from my purse, rip it open, and scan the contents.
Bad move.
Before I can stop it, I’m spitting wine on the sofa.
The check inside is for fifty thousand dollars.
Fifty thousand flipping dollars. For me. For—what exactly?
That’s enough to buy monster pastry orders for an entire convention.
I scrutinize the check closer.
It has my name on it. It’s inexplicably mine, and I’m apparently free to do whatever I want with it.
But wait. There’s something else in that envelope.
My hands shake as I pull out the note. God, even his paper is extra thick, textured rich-guy stuff with a stylized Dexter Rory header. There’s no way I could forget who sent this to me even for one second.
His note is short, businesslike, and reads more like a contract with everything written in short, bossy lines.
