Abigail pulled the phone an inch or so from her ear and grimaced. "I'm sorry to bring bad news…." "Not your fault," he growled. "But are you sure?" "Water was dripping from the ceiling to the floor. Enough to make puddles." He swore again. "That'll teach me not to inspect it myself. I hired a subcontractor who usually does good work. He picked the wrong job to screw up on." Abigail winced. Ed Phillips's bluff tone was usually genial, but she could easily imagine him raking someone over the coals. She was only grateful she wasn't the one who'd screwed up this time. "Must have been embarrassing as hell," he said. "Did you, uh, happen to mention it to the renter?" There it was again, that odd note of constraint. "Yes," she said. "He was home when I showed the house. He headed off to find buckets to catch the drips. He said something about saving the floor, at least." "That bad?" He sounded genuinely incredulous, if also angry. "Did you lose a real prospect?" "I'm afraid so," Abigail admitted, trying to hide how glad she was.
