WHAT HAPPENS ON VACATION

CHAPTER 1

Everyone has a defining characteristic. That one thing that makes them who they are. For example, perhaps you're a particularly upbeat person who always finds fullness in the glass. Or maybe you only ever see a small dribble of droplets at the very bottom, not nearly enough to quench your thirst. Or perhaps you don't give a crap about the glass! Perhaps you push it off the edge of the table like an obstinate cat might do, watch it shatter on the floor, liquid gushing out in all directions; you're a rebel like that.

Me? If I look at the glass, I will take out a ruler and measure the liquid before I pass any judgment on where it may or may not be. I'll double-check the glass too, make sure it's not one that's wider on the top and narrower on the bottom. Is the glass even on a flat surface?

I like details. I'm a perfectionist, nothing wrong with that! And as far as I can see, it's stood me in good stead through the decades, especially in my work as a journalist. I think it gives me a certain edge, an ability to hone in on all the details, bringing them into crisp, microscopic focus, to ask every conceivable question in the quest for a well-balanced article. But lately I've discovered I have a new defining characteristic . . .

"What's this?" I pointed at the suspicious mauve smudge on my side of the desk. Under normal circumstances, I might not have noticed the smudge so quickly if it hadn't been for all the other irregularities in the office.

The first irregularity was the loose partition in the middle of the desk, dividing his side from my side, so I didn't have to stare directly at him all day. There was a definite slope to it this morning, which had not been there yesterday when I'd left work. The other irregularity was that my pink highlighter was lying on the carpet and my trash can was also in the wrong place.

My office nemesis didn't look up. Had he even heard me?

"JAGGER!" I shouted, and his head snapped up.

"What?" He rubbed his temples with his fingers, a sign that he was, as I like to politely call it—although I have no idea why the hell I even bother with politeness when it comes to him—"under the weather."

"This!" I pointed and clicked my fingers. He visibly winced at the sound. Clearly he was a lot more under the weather than I'd initially thought.

"Whaaat?" Jagger groaned and finally released his temples.

I sighed. Well, it was more of a very pointed and purposeful loud inhalation, followed by an equally purposeful loud exhalation of breath. I followed it up with a tap of my foot, which was not nearly as effective as I'd hoped, given that the floor was carpeted.

"This! The mauve smudge on my side of the desk. And don't think I haven't noticed that the middle partition has also been moved and my pink highlighter is on the floor. And as for my trash can," I bent down and picked it up. "It belongs on the right side of my desk."

Jagger raised his red-rimmed eyes to meet mine. "Nothing escapes you, Detective Maggie May."

"Margaret! Stop calling me that. How many times do we have to . . ." I stopped talking and inhaled slowly, drawing an imaginary infinity symbol in my mind with my breath—something my therapist had taught me. Jagger was riling me up, again. As if that was his sole purpose for existence. And he'd been doing it from day one, from the second we'd been made to share this way-too-small cubicle.

I'd been forced to hand construct—with very little experience in such things, I might add—a middle partition to divide our desk in half. Did you know that using a nail gun is not as easy as they make it look in those DIY YouTube tutorials? That had been precisely six months, three weeks and two days ago, yes, I was counting. Because that was the day when my entire work life changed. When it went from normal and pleasant to downright hell on earth, all thanks to him—Jagger Villain! I'm also not entirely sure that's his real surname, by the way. Although there is definite poetic sense to it!