Free Tote Bags and Toe Tags by Dorothy Howell Page A

clicked another file and saw the names and contact info for dozens of vendors.
    Adela walked into my office and stood in front of my desk. She looked a little rigid and tense.
    â€œI should have given this to you earlier,” she said, in what I guessed would be the closest thing to an apology I’d ever get from upper management. She held out an envelope. “Things have been so ... difficult.”
    I rose from my seat and took the envelope. I ripped it open and found a credit card and slip of paper with a PIN. The words D EMPSEY R OWLAND were embossed on the card and in the corner was the company logo.
    â€œIt’s a corporate credit card,” Adela explained. “A card with your name on it will be ready soon.”
    Light beamed down from above—I swear—reflecting off the card.
    â€œYou’re to use it to purchase everything necessary for corporate events,” Adela said.
    Angels—really—began to sing.
    â€œIt goes without saying,” Adela said, “that Dempsey Rowland events are all top rate, first-class. We have global reach. We have international clients, strong political ties, and high government connections. We have superior standards and a reputation for excellence to uphold.”
    I started to get light-headed.
    â€œUse the card at your discretion, Haley,” Adela said. “And remember, only the best will do for Dempsey Rowland.”
    Adela left my office. I collapsed into my chair.
    Oh my God. Oh my God .
    I love my job.

C HAPTER 7
    I was tempted to use the my-boyfriend-was-in-a-car-crash excuse—which I intended to upgrade to a- horrendous -car-crash—but since I was just calling Holt’s to cancel my evening shift, I didn’t mention it. Besides, Jeanette, the store manager, already kind of knew I was involved with Ty, though she’d never mentioned it, and by now she would already know about his car accident.
    As I hung up with Holt’s, I whipped into a strip mall near my apartment and picked up Chinese take-out. It was one of Ty’s favorites, but I felt kind of crappy not preparing him a home-cooked meal after his accident—not that I’d ever done that, but still.
    Shuman’s girlfriend, Amanda, popped into my mind as I parked outside my apartment. Maybe I should redo my entire kitchen and make German food for Ty like she was doing for Shuman. Maybe Ty and I could have a dinner party and invite our friends. Then everyone could see Ty look at me the way Shuman looked at Amanda—which Ty did. I’m certain of it. Really.
    My apartment was silent when I went inside. I kicked off my shoes, set the take-out on the kitchen counter, and tiptoed to my bedroom at the end of the hall. The blinds were drawn and the lights were off. Ty was still sleeping, still lying in the same position he’d been in when I left him there hours ago.
    I changed into sweats and grabbed the jeans and polo shirt Ty had worn today. The bloodstains were pretty bad but I had mad skills when it came to washing clothes.
    My laundry room—which consisted of a washer, dryer, and some shelves—was situated in the hallway of my apartment, next to a coat closet and my second bedroom. I opened the bifold doors and went to work, soaking the stains with three different stain removers, concentrated detergent, dry bleach, then liquid bleach, all of which was probably against some EPA regulation, but, oh well.
    I turned on the washer as I searched the pockets of Ty’s jeans. I found his phone, wallet, and a couple of dollar bills and some coins wadded together with a receipt. I unfolded it and saw that it was for a soda purchased from a Chevron station in Acton, a community about fifteen minutes south of Palmdale. Ty must have stopped there for a cold drink before his accident.
    My doorbell rang as I shoved his clothes into the washer. I closed the bifold doors, dropped Ty’s phone, wallet, and money on the kitchen counter, then took a