Contrary to popular belief, Fingers was capable of
smiling; however, her expression as she dug under her
mattress was far from a smile. The letter was under
there somewhere . . . She scowled. Fifteen months in
one house was far too long. Not that she had a
choice. "D*mn Lansing . . ."
There was a movement at the edge of her vision accompanied by the unmistakable sound of someone trying to move quietly and failing.
"Ya evah hoid aŽ da door, Harris?"
Imp stopped halfway through the window, chagrinned, then climbed inside. "Ya got eyes in da back aŽ yer head, Fingahs?" she laughed sheepishly.
Fingers snorted, studying a piece of paper and then tossing it aside. She sat in a circle of rumpled papers. Imp raised an eyebrow. "Ya lookinŽ fer somethinŽ?"
