The paper in my hand has been crushed in my fist and smoothed out with shaking hands so many times the ink has almost faded. Almost, but I have the words memorized anyway.
“Where is he?” I ask the pretty receptionist without introducing myself. It must be obvious who I am, unless Christopher Bardot likes to torment women all over the country. He might have given her a heads-up; Like, “by the way, I have a stepsister who hates my guts.” Maybe they laugh about it before she gives him a blow job from beneath his desk.
That seems like exactly the kind of thing he would do.
“He’s in a meeting,” she says, clearly planning to block me. But her eyes give her away, her gaze darting to the frosted-glass doors to her right.
“Don’t bother buzzing me in,” I tell her, already heading in that directi
