"Hi, Marilyn," I said, lamely.
I peered past her. When had Marilyn said she was going to show up? Nine? And when had Linda said? Eight—no, wait. She'd said eight o'clock at first, and then said she'd be by in another hour after that.
At nine. Hooboy. This was not going to be pretty. Marilyn read me like a book and glanced back behind her in the rain, before looking back up at me.
"Expecting someone, Ryan?"
"Not exactly," I told her.
"Uh, well. Maybe. Look, come on in. You're getting drenched."
Which wasn't exactly true. I was getting drenched, my bare feet soaked, standing there in the open door, the wind blowing rain down the stairway at me.
Marilyn's mouth quirked in a malicious, predatory little smile, and she came in, folding down her umbrella and brushing past me.
"This is your apartment?"
"Nah," I told her.
