By lunchtime, I'm furious. This is bullshit. Kill Bill lied to me.
Because vengeance is not fun, and seeing Ansel Carson suffer brings me zero joy. It just makes me feel bitter and gross and small.
The real kicker is that I haven't even done anything big yet. You know, something life-ruining like I planned. I've been about as much trouble as the imaginary rat on the third floor, and already my resolve is crumbling.
Is this it? What about Dad?
Crap. I'm the world's most disloyal daughter.
The elevator hums, rattling its treacherous way through the floors. A pipe gurgles in the wall. My desk chair squeaks as I move, blouse rustling.
Dad.
It makes no sense. How could Ansel do that to him?
And suddenly, I'm too hot. Too stifled. My clothes are itchy and tight, the waistband of my skirt
