Lucy turned and faced the strawberry blonde behind her, gesturing rapidly with a folded origami triangle, evidently the newest form of note. “No! My father. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. ’ Departed? ‘Tchah! I suppose the vicomte threw him out?’ Watching the fellow’s face, Everett felt his suspicion growing. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness.
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