Chapter 8
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My dinner finished, I left the debris on my desk—I’d dispose of it later—and swiveled my chair around to avail myself of the excellent view through my window. Although it was getting late, the sky was still light, a wash of nimbostratus clouds; according to the weather forecasters, the threat of snow was ominously hovering over this entire portion of the East Coast.
It seemed we were going to have a white Christmas.
The door of my office opened unexpectedly, and I turned my head, an eyebrow raised. I’d given Janet Watson, my personal assistant, the afternoon off, so there was no one to screen my visitors
“Hey, Quinn.” David Brendan Cooper sauntered in, grinning. We had worked together for some years, and had been friends for as long.
“DB. The least you could do is knock,” I complained mildly.
“Nah. We’ve known each other too long. And besides, I may have been hoping to catch you—”
This time I raised both eyebrows.
“Never mind, you don’t chase anyone around your desk.”