Monday, one less day to find something that would stop the Syndrome in its tracks.
"We'd better."
He was clicking off the phone when he heard a wail of despair from the bedroom upstairs and the sound of a champagne flute being thrown against a wall.
Kristen was losing it rapidly now. Was she still conscious enough to know what was happening to her?
Chapter 7
Monday, April 6
7:30a.m.
The commute from Ally's West Village place to the CitiSpace office in SoHo was normally a twenty‑minute brisk stroll, and she brought Knickers with her a lot (the boss's prerogative) since her office was arguably homier than her home. (Knickers loved to wander around and—she thought—guard the computers and drafting tables.) This morning, though, Ally had an appointment for her at Pooch Pros, the dog groomers near her office. A wash and a trim and plenty of pampering. Betty and Misha always fussed over her shamelessly, and she gloried in it.