I can't believe it.
I refuse to believe it.
It's been way past fifteen minutes since the door clicked shut behind my assistant, and I'm still staring at the handle with dry eyes. Waiting for it to jiggle. Waiting for Sadie to burst back in here and declare this is all a terrible joke—that this is the long-awaited sequel to the April Fool's Day cream tart made of shaving cream that she left on my desk last year. Yet another example of her god-awful sense of humor.
The clock ticks on the wall.
Swallowing hard, I wait.
But... nothing. The door handle is still, and there are no sounds from the next room. No muffled giggles as Sadie relays her prank on the phone, and no creak of floorboards as she eavesdrops outside the door.
Nothing. She's just... gone.
She dropped that bombshell, blew
