Page 14 of Frosted Fakes

She was elbow-deep in a delicate meringue, the kind that required absolute concentration and a steady hand, when the shriek cut through the flat. Her whisk jerked. The meringue deflated with a sad little sigh.

"For the love of—" Elliott slammed the bowl onto the counter.

The alarm didn't stop.

Of course it didn't.

She grabbed her phone and jabbed at the screen until Milly's face appeared, because if Elliott was going to suffer, she might as well have company. And all of this was Milly’s fault really.

"Elliott, dear!" Milly's voice was warm and entirely too cheerful for someone who had caused this mess. "How lovely to hear from you. How are things at the bakery?"

"Things," Elliott said flatly, "are on fire. Possibly literally. I can't tell anymore."

"Oh dear." Milly didn't sound nearly concerned enough. "Is the new owner settling in?"

"The new owner is attempting to burn down the building. Repeatedly. With impressive dedication." Elliott moved to the window and glared down at the street below. "Did you know, by the way, that you sold someone a flat that already had a person living in it? As in me."

There was a pause. "Ah."

"Ah?" Elliott's voice went up an octave. "Ah? Milly, I live here. I've lived here for years. And now there's a stranger sleeping on my couch and destroying my kitchen and setting off the fire alarm every fifteen minutes—"

"I assumed you came with the flat," Milly said, and Elliott could hear the wince in her voice. "Like a fixture. Or a very grumpy cat. People can’t just go around throwing other people out of flats, can they?"

"I am not a fixture."

"No, you're considerably less cooperative than one." Milly sighed. "I'm sorry, love. I truly am. I should have thought this could happen. But perhaps this is for the best. Change is good for a person."

Elliott made a sound of absolute disgust. "Change is terrible. Change is the worst. I had a system, Milly. A routine. Everything was exactly how I wanted it, and now there's a woman downstairs who can't tell the difference between an oven and a weapon of mass destruction. Oh, and she’s sleeping on my couch. Or I’m sleeping in her bed. I’m not sure which."

"Is she pretty?"

"What?" Elliott blinked. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing at all. Just curious." Milly's tone was suspiciously innocent. "You seem very worked up about her."

"I'm worked up because she's going to get us both killed! Or at least make us homeless, once she burns the place to the ground."

The alarm was still screaming. Elliott pressed her free hand against her temple.

"Go help her," Milly said gently.

"I'm not helping her. I'm working on my cookbook. I don't have time to babysit someone who can't operate a toaster."

"Elliott."

"No."

"You're going to go down there," Milly continued, "and you're going to help that poor girl before she hurts herself. Because that's what decent people do."

"I'm not decent. I'm bitter and antisocial. You've said so yourself."

"I've said you pretend to be bitter and antisocial." Milly's voice softened. "There's a difference, love. Now go. Before the fire brigade shows up."

Elliott hung up without saying goodbye, which was rude, but she was fairly certain Milly would forgive her.

The meringue was definitely ruined. She stared at it mournfully for a moment, then squared her shoulders and headed for the stairs.

If she was going to prevent a disaster, she might as well get on with it.