As if there would be any doubt?
This week has been a bit hard. Shit happens, I guess.
Things have changed and are changing. I'm not thrilled with how the changes came about. It's going to take sometime to come to terms with it all, but I will.
Change can be a good thing. Positive.
Meanwhile ... it's Saturday morning and freaking freezing!
The kids have infected me with the cold they had in the holidays ... such joy! Bit tired of the sore throat part.
My grey cap has disappeared. It's really weird. I have no idea where it went. Am having to wear my NCIS cap ... which is slightly too big. (Okay a LOT too big, made for a man.)
Always feel like I should be wearing a shoulder rig when I have that cap on. Weird? Not if you could see in my head. Not so much weird as very Ellie.
I'm hoping to get the Sister Mary-Margaret story (for Writer's Plot) finished this weekend. That would be nice. I haven't done
Best go make sure the child is ready for netball.
Am starting to see video clips of the next scene in psychobyte (current WIP) ... that's a good thing. Might be some writing happening later.
“You okay?” Kurt asked as he entered my office.
“Yep, never better,” I replied looking at him from over my screen. “You need something?”
“We could try the truth, how would that work for you?” He sat on the edge of my desk.
“Whether you are feeling all right … because, Conway, you’re not usually ghostly in appearance.”
As I suspected, I’m dead.
“I’m good.” I took a breath and hoped to dislodge the image of the interview room Kurt had stirred up. “I just …” It wasn’t happening. I took another breath. Not fun.
“Not like you to have a sensitive stomach,” Kurt replied. “Just breathe. I’ll get you some water.” Kurt chuckled as he opened the small fridge in the corner of the room.
“It’s not funny,” I growled at the screen.
“Oh but it is, Conway,” Kurt replied sitting a bottle of water next to my right hand. “It really is.”
I swigged on the water and concentrated on the screen. Ignoring Kurt and his amusement.
“I’ve got Fairfax Police Department set up to patrol Sarah Ng’s home during the night and tomorrow morning,” I said. If I could concentrate on something other than the interview I figured I’d be okay.
My finger tapped the mouse button opening our email client. I scrolled through the latest forty emails. Nothing from Winchester about the sketch, yet. I’d hoped it’d set off a sudden flurry of information and we could stop any more deaths.
Damn me and my Pollyanna ways.