“Welcome home.”
“Smells good. What’re you cooking?” Pop asked, unhooking Maggie’s leash before removing his winter clothes.
“Thought I’d make some tomato sou—Maggie!” I shouted when she nearly took me out with a fifty-pound run-and-jump sneak attack.
“Down, girl,” Pop ordered, not even needing to raise his voice for her full obedience. She turned, trotted back to his side, and slobbered his hand affectionately. “We’ve talked about this.No jumping,” he chastised quietly.
I pointed a wooden cooking spoon at her. “You’re not a princess—you’re a devil.”
“Hey,” Pop said with a smile. “She just likes you.”
I grumbled and stirred the bubbling soup. “Neither of these dogs listen to me,” I said, inclining my head absently to where Dillon was in the living room.
“You need to be more assertive.”
“I should have pushed you to get a cat,” I corrected. “A big fat one that does nothing but lie on the windowsill all day and cast judgment from afar.”
Pop was chuckling as he joined my side. He picked up the loaf of bread, made a sound of appreciation after inhaling the yeasty freshness, then fetched a serrated knife to begin cutting smaller portions for our meal. “You sound hangry.”
“I get grouchy when I’m bored.”
“What did you do while I was out?”
“Rearranged your spice cabinet.”
Pop paused. He opened the cupboard in front of him and stared at the hanging rack on the other side of the door, where he did his best to keep all of his spices in a centralized location. “So you did.”
“It’s done by theme.”
“I can see that.”
“Calvin did it in our kitchen. He does most of the cooking anyway—did I tell you a few months ago that I accidentally put chili powder in a recipe instead of cocoa powder? Because they were alphabetized at the time. The texture looks the same to me. I guess the colors aren’t.”
“That’s true,” Pop said with a simple nod. He shut the door.
I turned the burner off, grabbed the ladle on the counter, and poured soup into two bowls. “I’m heading home after dinner. Warden hasn’t called with an update, but I have a hostage situation to negotiate at seven o’clock for a Christmas tree.” I picked up the bowls and walked to the dining table. “Oh. I cleaned your record collection too.”
“There’s over a hundred vinyls,” Pop protested from behind me.
“Yeah.”
SKIPPY’S TREESran their delivery and installation service with an efficiency that was impressive even by the New York standards of needing something yesterday. I’d barely turned the key in the lock of the front door when someone called from the street, “You waiting on Skippy’s?”
Holding the door open, I looked over my shoulder. A van was double parked, hazard lights flashing like a lighthouse in the dark. “Yeah. Are you delivering for Snow?”
The driver checked what I thought was probably his phone. “Sebastian? 4B?”
“That’s me,” I confirmed.
The driver went around the back of the van and was joined by a second individual from the passenger side. They removed a huge, tightly bound pine and started across the sidewalk toward me. I pulled Dillon out of the way, opened the door wide, and let them enter the building first. I heard something crinkle on the floor as they walked through the threshold, and upon following them inside, I stepped on whatever they had. Bending down, I retrieved a small padded mailing envelope with a few dirty, wet shoe impressions left on it.
Well, shit. I looked back at the front door as it fell shut. The mail carrier must have forgotten this and shoved it through the old-fashioned mail slot instead of entering the building again. I placed it on top of the individual mailboxes fastened to the wall for the recipient to find—
“Son of a….” I grabbed it and brought it close.
Sebastian Snow.
“Figures.” I shook the envelope lightly. No sound. I shrugged and raced after the guys, who were already up the first flight of stairs.
