A framed photo of her parents leaned against the wall.
Her printer sat on the floor.
Her coffee maker was on the counter, plugged in and functional, because she had priorities.
She stood barefoot in the middle of the room at six-thirty on a Tuesday morning, tablet in hand, wearing the same black pants she had worn yesterday. The box with her other work pants had vanished.
Not vanished. Misplaced. There was a difference.
Her phone buzzed on the table.
Evan:Dock shed. Bring your tablet and the binders Lacey put together.
Margot looked at the stack on the chair.
Halloween crowd flow.
Vendor lists.
Ghost tour scripts.
Masquerade dinner seating.
Fire marshal notes.
Temporary lighting.
Most of it had been scanned. Most.
She texted back:Which binder?
Three dots appeared.
Evan:I see the problem.
She smiled before she could stop herself.
That was happening more lately. Smiling at her phone like a woman in a shampoo commercial, except with worse hair and packing tape stuck to her elbow.
She peeled off the tape, grabbed the Halloween crowd-flow binder, tucked her tablet under one arm, and headed down the narrow stairs to Front Street.
The town was still waking up. The bakery lights were on. A delivery truck idled outside the market. Across the street, Lacey Morgan stood on a stepladder hanging a chalkboard sign for a private birthday brunch.
Lacey spotted her. “You look like the boxes are winning.”
“They have numbers.”
“Boxes always have numbers. That’s how they lure you in.”
Margot crossed the street. “Do you have the ghost tour vendor list?”
“I emailed it last night.”
“At eleven-forty.”
“Ben and I were arguing about whether fog machines belong near extension cords.”
“They don’t.”
