When I woke up the next day, the first thing I did was listen for any signs of my unbidden guest. But everything was quiet.

The night had been much too short. Even though I had switched off the alarm, the first stirrings of the city had ended my slumber. As they did every morning.

I rose and tiptoed into the living room. Last night, I had given Theresa an arm full of blankets, and she had arranged them in a multilayered cover to burrow under. Now, the only visible part of her was a nest of black, tangled hair.

My stomach was growling for sustenance, but preparing breakfast was bound to wake her up. And I wasn't eager for her company.

So, instead of eating in peace, I went to the bathroom, washed, put on my running gear, and let myself out. A jog along the beach might help me to find my feet and my senses. And, with a bit of luck, she'd have left when I returned.

The morning was gray and windy. A steady breeze from the sea turned the water's surface dull and crested the waves with caps of foam. Seagulls rode the stormy air and screeched their misgivings at the mess this world was in.

The regular thumping of my feet on the beachwalk's boards helped to get a grip on reality.

My mother had cancer. And she hadn't even told me about it until we met by accident. I'd need to call her. Later—once I'd have Theresa conveyed out of my apartment and out of my life.

Theresa Thorne—asleep on my sofa. One of the birds outside laughed at the weirdness of this thought.

And a strange person she was. About my age, but she behaved like a teenager. Was this the result of living the pampered life of a rich man's daughter?

Not that I cared, of course.

I passed Royal Sandwiches. It was closed up and deserted. My official duties there wouldn't start for another three hours. I sprinted past the building.

Had Thierry Thorne really killed his father? My skin still remembered the hot touch of his fingers on my face, the day I had been in his office.

The man was a predator. Physically. And emotionally. And none of his riches would ever justify his deeds. Deeds that demanded justice. And Theresa might be the key to bring that justice upon him.

And my mother was dying of cancer.

I ran faster.

~~~

It was past 8 a.m. when I returned to my apartment, hot from the exertion in spite of the morning's chill.

The nest of hair was still on my sofa.

Sleeping late, probably yet another consequence of not having to work.

I entered the bathroom to take a shower. That was bound to put an end to her slumber. And I wasn't trying to be quiet. It was about time she left. I had had my share of Thornes, for now, and for the rest of my life. A life I wanted to rebuild, far away from TCorp and these people.

After showering, I returned to the living room, dressed in a towel.

Theresa was still under the covers, but her face was turned towards me now, eyes glittering in the listless light entering through the window.

"Good morning," I said.

She made a moaning sound, tugged at a quilt, and covered her face.

I went to my bedroom to dress. When I returned, she had sat up, the quilt now wrapped around her. I had bought the garish piece of fabric at a flea market. It had been love at first sight, even though—or because—its stitched-together squares were all clashing colors of vivid red, pale pink, neon orange, and sickly aubergine. It covered Theresa from her neck to her ankles. Her unkempt hair hid one half of her pale face and flowed into the quilt's colored patches, as if rooted there. She held her lower lip between her teeth while her eyes—at least the one that wasn't lurking behind a veil of hair—followed me.

The woman looked so different from last night. She was still beautiful, but in a much more sleepy, despondent, unwashed, and grumpy sort of way—deeply human.

"You look in need of coffee," I said.

"Thanks." She nodded.

I plodded into the kitchen section of the room and opened the cupboard to get the pods to feed to my machine. The box was empty.

"Shit, we've got a problem."

"What is it?" Theresa got up, pulling her cover about her, and approached me. I felt possessive about that quilt, and her adopting it irked me, but right now she seemed to need it.

Her bare feet patted on the stone tiles.

"Wait," I said and went to the apartment's door, where I stored my shoes. I returned with a pair of felt slippers. "Here, take these."

They were bright blue and conflicted nicely with the quilt.

"Thank you," she said. "What's the problem we have?"

"We've run out of coffee." My body yearned for caffeine and the clarity that came with it. The yearning was urgent. "Look, there's a shop right down the street. I'll go and buy some. Would you mind preparing breakfast while I'm out?"

She nodded.

"There are eggs in the fridge... and milk." I pulled a bag of flour from the cupboard and placed it beside the sink. "You can prepare some pancakes. Salt's on the table."

She nodded again.

I took my purse and grabbed a coat. "I'll be back in ten minutes. Okay?"

Again, she nodded.

She was not much of a talker in the morning. That suited me fine.

I left.

~~~

The shop was busy, and I had to wait, so I returned later than expected.

The first thing I noticed when entering my apartment was the greasy stench of overheated oil and a cloud of smoke. The second thing was a cursing Theresa.

I ran to the range and took a smoking frying pan from her hands. Whatever the black stuff inside had been, it was beyond saving. I held it under the tap and doused it. The water hissed and boiled like an angered demon, adding smelly steam to the smoke.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "This... I was in your room for a second, and suddenly, it was burned."

"In my room?"

"Yes... I needed some clothes. The things I wore yesterday are dirty." She tugged at the baggy, black sweater she wore.

The sweater looked familiar. And that was no surprise because it was mine, a gift from my father. He had never had an eye for sizes. The sweater was much too large for me, and it was huge on Theresa. It reached all the way to her bare knees, and only her calves and socked feet could be seen. Lozenge socks that were straight out of my wardrobe, too.

She bit her lower lip.

At least she had the decency to look guilty. First the quilt, now the clothes. I was about to berate her for being the thief she was, just like her sweet-arsed brother, but her unhappy face and an abundance of moisture in her eyes stopped me.

How did she manage to look cute in that stuff? I would just look gangly and awkward.

"I'm sorry," she said, still tugging at my sweater. "I needed something to wear. But I only found some t-shirts, jeans, and... this. I guess your regular clothes are elsewhere..."

I laughed—I couldn't help it.

Her blue eyes blazed at me, and she drew a breath.

I held up my hands to stop her from exploding into my face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to laugh at you... But those t-shirts, jeans and... this..." I pointed at the sweater. "These are my regular clothes. You won't find much else here."

She deflated, and a small smile found her lips. "I see. And... I apologize. I didn't want to criticize your wardrobe."

"Well, I guess we have different fashion backgrounds." I turned towards the frying pan and its yucky contents, pouring the water from it and contemplating the best ways to dispose of the charred, sad junk of matter that should have been a pancake.

The smell of burnt egg was heavy in the air. I sighed, dropped the pan back into the sink, and opened a window, hoping to give the stench in the room a means of escape.

My stomach demanded attention, and we had Thierry waiting for justice. I turned towards Theresa. "You know what? Let's have breakfast at a restaurant."

"Good idea. But it'll be on me."

"Okay, we have a deal." After ruining my pan and eggs, she was entitled to fund our breakfast. "But there's one little thing."

Her face sobered. "What?"

"We need to find some more clothes for you."