George dropped his briefcase by the front door and was both moving and digging his keys out of his pocket before the expensive leather case flopped over on its side. He was in such a hurry that he had to stop and turn around to shut the front door to his house.

Today had been just hell at work. Mrs. Jameson was on him from the start, that skinny, shrieking bitch. All day long she’d been peering over his shoulder and pestering him. She had asked for the Layton file no less than five times today, as if pestering him would get it done any faster.

Then there was Katie, his secretary, who had not only did not bring him his morning coffee promptly at nine-thirty, as was his custom, but also claimed she had told him of the eleven-o’clock Schlossberg meeting today when George knew perfectly well she hadn’t, the lying bitch.

“Bitches, all of ‘em,” George muttered to himself as he unlocked the basement door and threw it open to bang loudly off of the hallway wall. Taking the stairs down two at a time, he loosened his tie and ran a shaking hand through his thinning hair.

He desperately needed some air.

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