“No fucking way,” Nichelle whispered into the night.
Marco looked like she felt: pale, on the verge of panic, desperately in need of a drink. “Yeah,” he squeaked. Then he said, “I gotta go,” and disappeared from her screen.
She was left to stare at Marco’s email: charts and graphs and illustrations meant for laymen like herself. The sight of it caused her guts to writhe and she reached for her wastebasket.
When she had finished vomiting she took a deep, steadying breath. She turned her attention back to Marco’s work.
She hissed, “Harrison Phillips, you bastard,” and started typing.