The unsalvageable soup is looking worse by the second. The chunk of plaster bubbling on the top is probably rife with asbestos, which is also now leaching into my apartment.

One more glance up at the missing piece of the ceiling tells me that the horror isn’t over yet.

For I notice there is some kind of...insect... crawling out from where the plaster used to be.

My heart zigzags up into my throat. I hate bugs. I hate spiders. And this thing looks like the worst bug on the planet had sex with the worst spider on the planet and the mutant baby is crawling out of the wall.

I grab senselessly for something to battle it with and come up with my frying pan. There’s no room in the cupboards to put it away and hanging it obviously wasn’t a good option, so I’ve left it on the counter since I moved in a year ago. God. A frying pan.

If I can take care of this, I can survive. I brandish the pan, adrenaline singing in my veins.

It’s at that very moment that my phone rings.

It’s been set to vibrate since the first moment I got it, but the sound is enough to jolt my attention to where it buzzes and bounces against the counter. The number on the screen is another horror in itself.

My old boss, Connor Webb.

I hate that guy.

He was such a savant at being evil, and Global loved him for it. Loved him. He shot up past me in the ranks and, to add insult to injury, became my boss three months before I quit for good to strike out on my own and become a freelance success.

I should let it go to voicemail, but his name has an aura of dollar signs, so I answer.

“I’m in the middle of something, Connor.”

“So nice to hear your voice, Genevieve,” he sings. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

“It’s Jenny, but you know that.”

The bug stops halfway on its journey between the missing plaster and the stove, and I freeze.

“Jenny. Jenny, Jenny, Jenny.”

His voice scratches its claws down a length of invisible blackboard. “Are you calling for any special reason, or just to say my name over and over until my eyes roll back in my head?”

“Hopefully with pleasure,” he quips, and I pantomime throwing up, though he can’t see me. “No, I’m calling with a bit of work.”

To my shame, my entire soul perks up at the mention of work, but I don’t want him to think I’m desperate. “What’s the job? If it’s a temp thing, I don’t know if I can—”

“It’s a temporary position, yes. But not in the office.”

That...seems weird.

“You want me to push paper at a desk that’s not in the office?”