Tasha sat on the couch sipping her wine, staring at the rim of her glass. The other occupants in the house—Heather, Cain and Paxson—were hiding in the kitchen. She knew she should go back to her room—no reason to depress everyone in her vicinity—but she’d spent the past four days hiding. Refusing calls and visits. Finally tonight, Heather had managed to drag Tasha downstairs and slapped a glass of wine in her hand. Tasha hadn’t progressed to getting dressed. She’d dragged on her robe, feeling the need for terry-cloth comfort. “Your cell is ringing again,” Heather said from the kitchen doorway, her voice soft and infused with sympathy. “I know.” “You’re going to have to talk to them.” Heather walked in and sat down on the edge of the coffee table. “I know.” “Soon.” The sympathy left Heather’s voice, replaced by the hint of a nag. Heather didn’t handle self-pity well and Tasha knew she was nearing the end of her “grace period”. Pretty soon Heather was going to start demanding she get off her ass and do something.
