Before I was even out the door again, showered and clean, my supervisor from work, Olivia Bloom, called, asking me what was going on and did I need to take some time off to figure it out.“How did you hear?” I asked.“Twitter,” she said. She was sixty-three and happily played the role of mother hen to her younger employees. I kind of liked it. It felt good to have someone treating me that way.“Oh, God,” I said.“Do you need anything, Nick? Help? Advice? A lawyer?”“I have one of those already.” And then I told her everything was fine, that it was all a misunderstanding and soon enough the police would be clearing me of everything. I tried to sound as confident as Detective Reece when I said, “It’s just election-year politicking.”“You’re probably right,” Olivia said. “But since your job requires you to interact with the public so much and go into their homes, maybe you need to take a day . . .”I got the point.She was giving me a day off, whether I wanted it or not.Then Mick Brosius called.
