Page 67 of Spooked

“Don. Where’s your printer?”

“Next door, in Meera’s office.”

“Aw, you have adjoining rooms? That’s so cute.”

Alexa had two of the three laptops open now, bulky things built for power rather than aesthetics. Don slid his own computer out of the briefcase and looked around.

“We’ll need more chairs,” he said.

Meera picked that moment to walk in with a tray, and she stared at the desk, no doubt wondering where the hell she was meant to put the drinks. Brax shoved his own laptop into a drawer, cursing Alexa under his breath. Didn’t she realise he had enough on his plate today without a cosy reunion?

“Can you find more chairs?” Don asked Meera.

“How many chairs?”

“Three.”

“Uh, okay.” She looked to Brax, questioning, but all he could do was shrug.

“Is there any popcorn?” Alexa wanted to know. “Today’s a popcorn day. And bring water for Brax and his hangover.”

“We have cookies. Or I could go out and—”

For crying out loud. “The cookies are fine.”

“Are they the good kind with chocolate on them?” Alexa asked.

Meera gave a shaky smile. “There are amaretti, chocolate chip, and shortbread. Oh, and I picked up some macarons from the patisserie yesterday.”

Alexa pointed at her. “She’s a keeper.”

Tell Brax something he didn’t already know.

Ten minutes later, they had chairs and cookies, and his desk looked like the love child of corporate America and a stick of dynamite. Meera had run for her life, and Chase was lying on the couch, reading a paperback.

“Alexa, what the fuck is going on?”

“Shush. I don’t have time for questions, not when I had to waste two hours flying here becauseyoucouldn’t answer your damn phone. Should we put this on the big screen? Yes, I think we should put this on the big screen.”

Code scrolled across her laptop, and she hijacked his TV.

“Don, I realise this might be an awkward question, but who are you and what are you doing in my office?”

“I’m Ms. Stone’s lawyer, and I’m drafting your divorce settlement agreement.”

“Well, stop. My lawyer already did that.”

“Don, keep typing.” Alexa clicked one of her three mice. “Brax, sit down. We’re just getting to the good part.”

Dare he even ask? “Which is?”

“Carissa’s downfall in glorious technicolour. Talk about time pressure. We had to fuck up an entire airport to buy a few extra hours. Okay, I haven’t had time to edit this properly, so we’ll have to fast-forward through the boring bits.”

The screen was split into four, but the lower left quadrant was black. They were looking at a packed bar with a variety of clientele—young and old, every creed and colour—many of whom were guarding wheeled cases and backpacks. One camera focused on the counter, and the other two gave a wider view.

“Is this the airport?”

“Newark, yes. Good to know you still have at least one functioning brain cell left.”

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