“He did what?” Gloria asked, staring at me across her second Bloody Mary at Findor’s.
I loved Findor’s on Downing Street and thought it robustly quaint, very French, and inexpensive for a chic lunch. The two of us should have been going to Findor’s all along.
The place felt crowded because of its tiny eating area. Café-like tables and wrought-iron chairs decorated a white, marble floor. Baroque windows overlooked Downing Street in the city and part of the Ohio River. I didn’t know anyone who worked there, which made me comfortable.
“Miller broke into my house,” I told Gloria for the second time. Then I shared my Miller story with her from beginning to end. “He’s out of his mind. I was threatened.”
“Sounds pesky.”
“Pesky?” I raised an eyebrow, questioning her word choice.
“Yes, pesky,
