On her way home—in the same car that had been shuttling her to and from the hospital—a call came in. The name Shane flashed across the screen.
He was probably calling about the apartment. Two days ago, he'd sent her two options, and she'd picked the one in Brooklyn.
She swiped to answer. "Hello?"
"Erisia, how have you been?" His voice was smooth, polite—the same measured tone he always used.
"I've been fine," she replied lightly. "But I doubt that's why you called. I'm guessing the apartment's been arranged?"
"Yes," Shane said. "It's been bought, furnished, and is ready for you to move in. If you'd like, I can contact an interior decorator to—"
"No need," she interrupted gently. "I'll have to see it first before deciding whether it needs decorating."
