My transformation into the undead started with a pregnancy test stick.
A used pregnancy test stick.
Not mine, thank you very much.
I slammed the plastic zippered baggie, used pregnancy test stick enclosed, down on my boss’s desk. “Here’s your proof. Jessie Alton is knocked up. Her housekeeper confirmed it.”
Ralph O’Malley recoiled in disgust. His blue eyes narrowed, and he snarled, “Jesus, Ridgeway, get that thing off my desk!” He poked at it with his pencil, pushing it away from him, until I snatched it up.
I didn’t blame him. I wasn’t thrilled about dumpster diving for the proof just because a major TV star peed on the damn thing, but I also didn’t want my editor destroying valuable evidence. Legal would want the little stick for DNA testing in case Alton sued.
The A/C kicked on, but the weak circulation did nothing more than stir the lingering cigarette smoke in Ralph’s tiny windowless office. Despite the ban on indoor smoking in Los Angeles, the publisher of The National Scoop ignored Ralph’s predilection for cancer sticks.