He agreed to a 13:00 meet, which was a perfect way to end a morning that would rapidly disintegrate into chickenshit. First, the weekly check-in at the Sentinel, followed by the dreaded come-clean with Walt. At best? Censured. At worst? Terminated. Feck. One thing that sucked about my new cover was the uniform. Dressing like the average Sentinel reporter was not my glass of whiskey. I’d be heading to Belmont Army, Futurgarb, and Hot Topic after my meet with Nyx. If, of course, I wasn’t filling out unemployment paperwork. I went into the garage to retrieve my Caterpillar steel-toed work boots from the trunk. Somehow a bag of Stannislav’s clothes had ended up in my car. Not surprisingly, Declan “missed” it when he’d dragged my belongings into the house a couple of weeks ago. I rifled through it and scored a white dress shirt and black and red rep-striped tie. Back into the house, where I chose black leggings and a lace cami. A plaid micro-mini finished the look. Teasing my hair into a slapdash ponytail, I added a goth-level of eyeliner and so much mascara my lashes looked like furry caterpillars.
