The front door opens and closes and Walsh’s voice rings through the apartment. “Honey, I’m home! I hope you two are decent!”

“Barbara, can you hold on a sec?”

“Sure.”

I press my cell to my shoulder.

Walsh lopes into the living room and stops dead, taking in the scene. “Who died?”

“No one yet,” I growl.

Graeme kneels in front of me. “Henley, you need to get in there and pitch your idea to Marlen. Now. Before James takes it to the executive board.”

I stop grinding my molars and take a deep, bracing breath. “You’re right. The longer I wait, the harder it’ll be to convince him I came up with it first.” I lift the phone to my ear again. “Barbara, can you get me in to see Marlen today before one?”

“I’ll make it happen. Rose owes me a favor. Just get here as soon as you can, okay?”

“Thanks. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” I tap the end call button and stare at my phone for three hectic heartbeats before springing from my seat. “I’m pitching it now. I’m pitching it now.”

“Wait, your ecotourism proposal? I thought that was tomorrow.” Walsh’s eyes are wide.

“I’ll get us an Uber,” says Graeme, whipping his cell out of his back pocket.

I dash for the bedroom, peeling my shirt over my head as I go and shimmying out of my yoga pants. Walsh follows me. “Wait, what’s going on?”

“My boss has been screwing me over, that’s what. I just found out from Barbara that he’s been stealing credit for my ideas behind the scenes to help himself get ahead.”

“That asshole. Where is he? I’m going to gut him like a toad.”

My lips quiver at the razor blades in her tone. “Just help me get dressed.”

I run to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. Mascara. Lip stain. Hair thrown in a bun. No time for anything else. Walsh scurries in holding a bundle of hangers containing my best suit coat, a matching pencil skirt, and a silk blouse. I pull them on in record time. I’m still zipping my skirt when I dash into the living room and nearly bump into Graeme. He’s wearing the same polo and jeans from yesterday and he’s scooping my notepad and laptop into my work tote.

“Uber’s here,” he says.

Walsh tosses me one shoe, then another—black four-inch stilettos. My power shoes. Hopping toward the door, I slide them on. “I’m coming too,” she says. Her tone brooks no disagreement. She’s wearing yoga pants, slip-on sneakers, and a hoodie… to my office. And I couldn’t care less.

Two minutes later, the three of us are in the back seat of a Toyota Corolla zipping through downtown Seattle. I dial Christina’s number. She answers on the first ring.

“Hey, Hen—”