Page 20 of How To Plot a Payback

Two minutes to nine.

One more hallway to go.

I had originally planned to arrive much earlier, but at the very least, I still can make it just in time to slide in before nine if I race the clock.

I pull the first of what is sure to be a thousand hairs off my pants today.

“Best of luck,” I cast over my shoulder, as I begin striding down the hall at as close to a canter as a human can.

I make it twenty or so steps when my feet slow.

No, Finn.

But there they go, my feet slowing to the cadence of a slow trot. The question lingering.

Why hasn’t she replied?

My wheels are grinding, creaking as my feet slow to a full stop.

Barks echo down the hall, the racket terribly loud, but still I hear no reply.

I grit my teeth.

Squeeze my eyes shut.

Look over my shoulder.

Immediately regret looking over my shoulder.

Clamp my eyes shut again.

The young woman is standing, several taut leashes wrapped around both arms. Her red hair looks like she’s walked through a wind tunnel. The high, skinny, and incredibly worthless heels she made the most unfortunate decision to wear today are sliding on the concrete, despite clear efforts to stay put.

I have two minutes.

And I’m about to break the one absolute rule Goodwin gave me: don’t be late.

But then there’s a break in the curtain of her hair. And I see her face.

It’s a look of absolute despair. Actually, it’s the exact look Bob, my ninety-two-year-old neighbor (I have a surplus of elderly neighbors), had last week when I opened my door to take my dog on a morning walk. Bob was drifting on a large inflatable in the middle of the community pool. Totally stranded after our little party the evening before. Just a man bobbing in a pool of glowing turquoise-green Spanish tiles, clinging for life to the neck of a smiling pink flamingo.

I take a steadying breath. Pull my messenger bag over one shoulder as I head back.

“C’mon,” I say, unwrapping a handful of leashes from her arm. Already one of the dogs has claimed my shoe and begun trying to drag me.

“Heel,” I say firmly. None of them so much as pause, and I heave a sigh. “Okay. Where to . . . ?”

“Maggie,” she supplies, and I hear a small exhale of relief whistle through her lips. “And to the line.”

Her eyes are grateful, though she doesn’t act entirely out of the woods yet—not surprising considering a dog is trying to lift her skirt while she, with her free hand, is trying desperately to keep him down. But there’s a significant lift in her energy. Her breath is steadying.

I frown. “The line,” I repeat.

I know the line. The line is notorious around here. The line is also all the way across Wagner Studios to Lot A. And what these dogs have to do with the line is beyond me. Still.

It’s not like I can turn back now, and the faster the better. “Okay then,” I say, throwing my hand out for her to lead. “To the line.”

On her cue I follow, and together we slip and slide our way down four halls, through an outdoor shortcut that includes bypassing (evidently highly alluring) dumpsters, back inside through a back door that after one long hallway gives way to a front door, until here at last we stand.