Rattling against wood. Something was… Flynn opened one eye just as her cell phone vibrated itself right off the nightstand and clanked perfectly into a glass with about a half-inch of Irish whiskey. She’d moved it to the floor in the middle of the night because the smell was bothering her, but she’d lacked the motivation to carry it all the way to the bathroom sink. “Oh, shit,” she said, reaching in, glancing around, then finally wiping it on the bedspread. The Arms was a nice place, but it was still a hotel. Surely the bed had suffered worse indignities. She flipped the phone open. “Yeah?” “Flynn.” Her father’s voice came through the line. Taut and businesslike, the way it always was, even on birthdays and Christmas. She sat up straight in a Pavlovian response. “Hey. Dad. Wow. What time is it?” There was a slight pause. “Nine thirty. Are you in your office?”
