I stared at my phone screen for a long moment, reading Rhys Fitzgerald's bizarre message again.
*Miss Dubois, I really like you. Can you give me your parasite?*
What on earth did that mean? Was it a translation error? Some kind of code? Or just the ramblings of an eccentric billionaire?
I typed back a cautious response: *I'm sorry, I don't understand your message.*
His reply came almost instantly: *Oh! Parasite! No, no. Auto-correct. I meant poop. Dog poop. For my research.*
I nearly dropped my phone. Dog poop? I didn't even own a dog. This had to be some strange joke or a case of mistaken identity. I decided not to respond further and blocked the number. Whatever game Fitzgerald was playing, I wanted no part of it.
