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“Send them,” he demanded.
The elevator stopped gently. I stepped off and headed straight to Hart’s condo.
“You know the rules, Syrus.”
“Why do you have to be so difficult?” he groaned.
I waved my keycard at the keypad and let myself in after it flashed green and the locking mechanism turned. I tucked the phone between my neck and shoulder and eased my coat off.
“I’m not being difficult, Sy. You have to respect the chain of custody. We have protocols in place for a reason.”
“Verydian.”
“Don’t Verydian me. The last time I sent lyrics ahead of schedule, one of our songs ended up online before the third album was even announced. Remember that?”
“Fuck,” he muttered. “That was years ago.”
“Too bad I don’t give a damn. The lyrics will be hand-delivered, just like we’ve been doing ever since.”
“Not even a picture?”
I scoffed and hung my jacket on the coat rack. “Especially not a picture.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Take it up with Uncle Gerald. He’s the one who implemented the protocol.”
I frowned at the excessive boxes of food lined up in the foyer. It was enough food to survive the apocalypse.
“What if I come down there and pick them up myself?”
“No. I don’t trust you.”
“I hate that we’re related.”
“I love you, too.”
“Vera?”
“Yes?”
“Can you just… can you just tell me if they’re good? You know we’re coming off hiatus, and—”
“You’re nervous,” I interjected. “Trust me. No one is more nervous than I am.”
He blew out a breath. “Right. I’m sorry, Vera.”
“No need to apologize. See you at Christmas?”
“See you at Christmas. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Sy.”
We hung up, and I navigated through the maze of food. “Sweet Hart?”
“Kitchen.”
Cardboard boxes covered the kitchen island and dining table. Grocery bags crowded the countertops, and several large cases of bottled water were stacked near the pantry. Canned vegetables, boxes of stuffing, bags of potatoes, dinner rolls, cranberry sauce, macaroni, cheese, turkeys, hams, and enough disposable roasting pans suggested Hart might be planning to open a catering business on the side.
