Chapter 8

So he knocked, but his stomach was already in his shoes.

“Come in!”

He cracked the door open and slipped inside.

The office was a messy collection of files, random tennis balls, and trophies in a dusty cabinet by a tiny window. The desk was groaning under the weight of a million bits of paper, and the woman behind it looked up sharply when he shut the door behind him.

Anton blinked, thrown.

“Who’re you, then?”

Mrs. Salter was…petite. And pretty. She was probably only Anton’s height herself, a slender black woman with very long braided hair swept up in a high ponytail. She was wiry, whipcord muscle showing on her bared arms, and all limbs. She could have been a gymnast or a ballet dancer, and yet there was a sharp, calculating look on her face that made Anton think maybe he hadn’t been too far off the mark after all.

“Uh. Anton Williams. Miss.”