One “Why. Won’t. You. Open!” With every word I pushed my shoulder into the door. I gave the wood a two-handed shove, but all that got me was stinging palms. “I just love being a housekeeper,” I muttered, put my back to the panel, bent my knees, and drove my weight backward. The door gave a little, and I rammed it again. The gap widened, and I turned to put my eye to the crack between the door and the jamb. “Oh, my God.” I sank to my knees. The thing blocking the door was my boss. My dead boss, if the amount of blood on the floor was any indication. Crap! I knelt down and squeezed my arm through the space to see if I could feel a pulse, but she was cold. Dead cold. I sat down on the porch floor, put my head between my legs, and willed myself not to throw up. Not throwing up is something I’m definitely not good at. A life skill I haven’t developed. My name is Bella Bree MacGowan. Bella is Italian; Bree—well technically, Brie, but my mom couldn’t spell—is French, and MacGowan is Scottish.
