“I know yours. It’s hard not to when you come in after high tea with a badge on.” I gaze at hers. “Mrs. Frank Babcock. Did you toss out your last name andfirst when you married well?”
Isaac rubs my shoulders. “Barry here’s stressed.”
I twist away. “I have zip stress. No one to hide the last piece of KFC from. No more arguments about who picks up dog crap—”
Evelyn interjects, “Barry, if our board—”
“No, I’m bored, Mrs. Jerome Overton.” I offer my back.
Isaac, aghast, trails me past a virtual room where staff and customers do space-planning. He keeps saying my name. We round the corridor into the small executive suite. I walk into my office without turning, and he follows.
“Do we have a revised business forecast I need to know about?” he asks. “Is that what you’ve been working on as you ignored us for the last two months? A plan to have zero customers by year’s end?”