By Wednesday afternoon, I’d barely said two words to Jenson, which was fine with me. I caught him eyeing me in the break room when we happened to be there at the same time getting coffee, or in the elevator over a crowd of people. He was quite tall, after all.
I had nothing to say to the man, and there was no way I was going to be alone with him anywhere, if I could help it. I un-friended him on f*******:, closed my Twitter account, and washed my hands of anything to do with Jenson Sommers. He was dead to me.
At seven o’clock that evening, I bore the heat as well as I could while walking to the train station. It looked like rain, but the clouds were mostly a tease. My phone buzzed in my pocket as I went along, so I pulled it out to check my text messages.
Bransworth had sent me a short
