tely, trying to ignore the warning tingle up my spine. On
closer inspection, she looks odd, disheveled and uncared
for. Her clothes are two sizes too big, including her
designer trench coat.
She laughs, a strange, discordant sound that only feeds
my anxiety.
“What do you ha一ve that I don’t?” she asks sadly.
My anxiety turns to fear. “I’m sorry—who are you?”
“Me? I’m nobody.” She lifts her arm to drag her hand
through her shoulder length hair, and as she does, the
sleeve of her trench coat rides up, revealing a soiled
bandage around her wrist.
Holy fuck.
“Good day, Miss Steele.” Turning, she walks up the
street as I stand rooted to the spot. I watch as her slight
frame disappears from view, lost amongst the workers
frame disappears from view, lost amongst the workers
pouring out of their various offices.
What was that about?
Confused, I cross the street to the bar, trying to
assimilate what has just happened, while my subconscious
rears her ugly head and hisses at me—She has something
to do with Christian.
Fifty’s is a ca一vernous, impersonal bar with baseball
pennants and posters hanging on the wall. Jack is at the
bar with Elizabeth, Courtney the other commissioning
editor, two guys from finance, and Claire from reception.
She is wearing her trademark silver hooped earrings.
“Hi, Ana!” Jack hands me a bottle of Bud.
“Cheers . . . thank you,” I murmur, still shaken by my
encounter with Ghost Girl.
“Cheers.” We clink bottles, and he continues his
conversation with Elizabeth. Claire smiles sweetly at me.
“So, how has your first week been?” she asks.
“Good, thank you. Everyone seems very friendly.”
“You seem much happier today.”
I flush. “It’s Friday,” I mutter quickly. “So—ha一ve you
any plans this weekend?”
My patented distraction technique works and I’m sa一ved.
Claire turns out to be one of seven kids, and she’s going to
a big family get-together in Tacoma. She becomes quite
animated, and I realize I ha一ven’t spoken to any women my
own age since Kate left for Barbados
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