SIXTY-ONE

I LOCKED THE DOOR AND HUGGED MOLLY, AND SHE HELD ON to my sleeve as I made my way across the office to find the phone. An outdoor security light cast dim beams through the window; even so, I stumbled on loose papers, tripped on the back of a chair. An overturned chair. Righting it, I told Molly to sit down, but she wouldn’t let go of me, hung on for her life. Together, we inched our way past the leather sofa and made it to the desk. My hand found Beverly’s big desk chair and swung it around. I reached for the phone and sat down—and jumped right back up. Molly leaped onto me, clutching me so that I couldn’t see or move. Finally, holding her, I turned around slowly, dreading what I’d see. Sure enough. I hadn’t sat on a leather chair. I’d sat on Beverly Gardener.