Seraphina's Point Of View
Mr. Harrison's throat bobbed like a trapped bird. He scrambled backward out of my office, nearly tripping over his glossy black oxfords in his haste to escape the literal heat radiating from my desk. Rose had already shot into the bullpen, her heels clicking against the concrete floor with the precision of a synchronized firing squad.
I remained frozen behind that heavy mahogany slab, my fingertips pressing so hard against the cold grain that my nails turned a sickly, translucent white. The wood felt solid beneath my hands, the only solid thing in a day that had begun to unravel like cheap thread. Ten minutes, I thought, my chest heaving beneath my stiff silk shirt.
