“Could this day get any worse?” Leslie Knotts muttered to herself, eyeing the watermark-circled hole in the ceiling tiles above her head. Thudding and a muffled expletive rumbled from the hole.
She yanked her cashmere scarf from her neck and stomped the slush off of her Prada heels. She took one look around her new office in the Carterville Branch of Hanston and Boyd Accounting and gasped. This place was a phone call away from being condemned.
Someone shoved the few pieces of furniture haphazardly to the side in favor of a paint-spattered ladder and water stains marked the paneling and the worn carpet.
As the jingling of the bell on the door died away, something scraped against the ceiling above her and dust sifted onto her hair. Leslie snatched the handle of her Coach briefcase and backed into the door, jangling the sleigh bells on the handle again. If a rodent appeared in the hole, she would drive all the way back to
tonight. She forced herself to take a
deep breath, murmuring to herself rats didn’t swear. Chicago
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