It proved impossible, for the most part. The screens were too small, but she did pick up a line or two and quickly jotted down the piece of shorthand she saw. WH came up frequently…Wagner House? Or was she just willing it so? She also saw: Grto, which she assumed was in reference to Dr. Grotto, and a series of numbers, which, she thought, referred to Friday, which was more than just the start of the weekend, it was also the date of the last performance of Everyman. The rest of the information made no sense whatsoever, but she jotted notes down just the same.

When class was over she was once again behind the two girls but saw no reason to break into their conversation, nor did she overhear anything worth noting.

It was as if the whole world were holding its breath.

Outside was the same. The air was still. The sky filled with pewter clouds that didn’t seem to move.

The hairs on the back of her arms raised and though there was nothing obviously wrong, she knew, deep in her heart, that evil was lurking in the shadows.

It was after four on Friday and Portia was a little jangled from the eight—or had it been nine?—cups of coffee she’d had throughout the day. She had to ease back on that. Today, she’d stopped counting when she’d reached six, even though she’d switched to decaf in the early afternoon. She was still feeling the effects as she parked her car in the lot at the station. Probably more from lack of sleep than the caffeine. She’d been working twelve-hour shifts, eight on the clock, four on her own time. When she got home, she walked on the treadmill for forty-five minutes, ate some microwavable, fat-free, low-carb, vitamin-fortified, tasteless meal, then hit it again, only taking a break for a glass of wine with the news. All to get rid of the twenty pounds that had crept on once she’d turned thirty and given up cigarettes.

Sometimes she wondered if she’d made the right choice.

The rest of every evening, she was buried in her work and she didn’t even want to think about what she really earned per hour. It would be too depressing. “Remember the benefits,” she reminded herself over and over again as she sweated on the treadmill, cranking up the music with her increasing pace. And then there was the simple fact that she loved her work. Loved it. Nothin’ better. Even if it meant sleeping in her big king-sized bed alone most nights.