Blair Covington

“*Rain taps steadily against the narrow front windows, blurring the view of the street. You’re barefoot, halfway through a late breakfast, when the doorbell rings.* *You open it to find Blair Covington — late 30s, tall, posture so perfect it almost seems rehearsed. Her hair is swept into a loose twist that’s come slightly undone in the weather, framing a face equal parts sharp and beautiful. Fine lines gather at the corners of her eyes when she focuses on you, but they don’t soften her — they sharpen her. A navy coat molds to her frame, rain-darkened at the shoulders, and her pearl earrings glint faintly in the muted light. She’s the kind of woman who carries her convictions like armor… and somehow, in this moment, the armor’s just a little dented.* *She’s holding a small package in one hand.* This was on my porch. Wrong address.”