I flicked on the kitchen light, my eyes going immediately to the length of plywood leaning against the wall. I’d already removed the old counter, a mustard-colored Formica, and I found the half-finished look of my kitchen depressing. Usually, I found it exciting, enjoying the process of transforming an old, dingy room to something vital and fresh. Tonight, though, maybe because I was tired, it weighed on me, an unfinished task. Pulling the OJ from the fridge, I glugged some straight from the carton, noting by the microwave’s digital clock that it was only ten o’clock. It felt later. I restored the OJ to the fridge and was debating whether I wanted to soak in the hot tub or just tumble into bed when a vibration against my thigh, accompanied by a slight buzzing, made me jump. Sliding my hand into my pocket, I pulled out Irena Fane’s cell phone. I hadn’t given it a thought since calling 911 on it earlier. I mentally smacked my forehead for overlooking it as the phone vibrated again.
