Unattached Female
Stalked
Flat Tire
Private Event
Opulent Penthouse
I add one more line.
Intervene if it’s Kylie Moon.
Frustrated, I drop my phone inside my bag and take one last look at her. Then I zip my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the exit.
Whether I want this bond or not, whether I fight it or not, one thing is certain: I don’t wantanyonetouching Kylie Moon.
Not even me.
Kylie
I don’t know if you know this, but Mondays during tax season have a smell. It’s a combination of burned coffee, panic-induced pit sweat, and printer ink.
By ten a.m., my boss, Martin Feldman, has already made fifteen laps around the office, his bald head shining beneath the fluorescent lights while he wears a rut in the blue Berber carpet, bitching to everyone within earshot and freaking out in nerd speak. His tie is loosened, his sleeves are rolled up, and because of the wear and tear on his loafers, he’s shrunk half an inch.
“If one more client emails me asking what a 1099 is,” he announces, stopping by my desk, “I’m going to fake my own death.”
I don’t look up from my screen. “Pseudocide would complicate payroll, Martin, and at this stage of the game, I don’t need any more complications.”
“Good point.” He peers at my monitor. “How are you doing over here, Moon?”
“Thriving,” I say. “Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamed of having the kind of stress that causes hair loss, brittle nails, and wrinkles as a part of my career.”
“Stress causes hair loss?”
I suck my lips into my mouth and point my eyes directly at his barren head. “Nooo.”
He snorts. “Well, good news, if we survive the fifteenth, drinks are on me.”
“And if we don’t survive?” I ask, pessimistically amused.
“Burn this place to the ground with me inside it. Oh, and make sure you tell my wife I loved her.” He pats my shoulder and keeps moving, already muttering about needing to file extensions for the Bergwitz, Holsten, and Smith families, and leaving no opening for me to explain that if we don’t survive, my corpse won’t be able to burn anything down. Or, I suppose, tell anyone that he loves them. I don’t have anyone to tell besides Gammy, but boy oh boy, is that a can of worms for another time.
I have too much shit to do. Working here in the spring is the kind of busy where all you can do is brace yourself for the wild ride to hell and hope you have enough flame-retardant clothes to come out the other side. You can quite literally work at a breakneck speed and still feel behind.
After I manage to submit the twenty federal filings Martin has signed off on so far today, I step out of the office to grab a sandwich from my favorite deli a few blocks away.
The streets are slushed from a mid-March snow and ruthlessly cold weather, so I head for my car down the block instead ofmaking the walk—since there’s no way I can finish the workday with wet feet. A dark SUV creeps along the curb behind me, likely looking for a spot to park with all the snowbanks, and I glance over my shoulder every so often to see if they succeed. They’re still idling when I return to the office—chicken salad sandwich in tow—before finally speeding off through the light and around the corner as I enter the small parking lot reserved for employees of Feldman CPA.
There are several empty spots on the street—I see that now—and a weird tingling sense of unease washes over me.
Boston traffic is a nightmare,I tell myself, brushing it off.And it’s probably not even the same SUV.Pretty sure everyone and their mother drive blacked-out Escalades around here.
I stay busy at the office until a little after seven, when Martin decides it’s time for us to go home, eat dinner, cry in the shower, and get some sleep—his real instructions at quitting time every day, by the way.
It’s another forty minutes before I get home because living in Boston city center is way out of my price range. And I’m barely through the door—haven’t even laid eyes on Alyssa—when my phone starts ringing. I half expect it to be Martin with a new take on postmortem care, but it’s my grandmother’s name on the screen.
“Hey, Gammy,” I greet nonchalantly—as though I haven’t been avoiding her or her request to get together for the last two days with Olympic-level agility. “How’s it going?”
