Ms Sermon tapped her fingers one right after the other. In quick rhythm on the fine wooden desk, like a musical arpeggio. It was 11 P.M. Lightning flashed through the shuttered windows of the Victorian mansion. With thunder close behind. She downed a glass of scotch. Then opened the desk drawer, pulling out a leather bound journal that bore her name.
She felt pretty this night. Prettier than she'd felt in a long while. She rubbed her hand over the cover of the journal and began to remember the events of this day fondly. There had been a girl that came to her door...