Page 10 of Signed, I'm Yours!
“Walk?” I laugh. “Walk through the mud? Darling, these”—I point at my pink trainers—“are Jimmy Choos. And they’re not going anywhere near that puddle.”
John rubs his chin, staring at the puddle for a moment before he turns and kicks his foot underneath the skip. It slides to the side, revealing an entrance.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says and goes down a set of stairs. My jaw drops.
Did he seriously just leave me here?
“Wait!” I run through the puddle before thinking about it since I don’t want to lose him, and I catch him by the shoulder. “I might just mark you down for that.”
Redness colors his white face, and I wish Iwasan inspector just so I could get him in trouble.
“I’m sorry—” he starts.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Take me inside.”
He nods and turns, walking down the rest of the staircase the leads into a clean, sterile hallway.
“Now we’re talking.”
“See? I told you this is our office,” John says, stopping in front of a metal detector.
“Any weapons, sir?”
I shake my head.
“I don’t carry weapons. I’m an inspector,” I tell him.
The Sinister Seomyeong doesn’t need weapons. I’ve got all my power in my fingertips. Why carry guns when you can sign for things?
John, however, does carry a gun, which he unholsters from the small of his back and puts on a little plastic box.
I knew it. I knew SPAM is evil. Why would they carry guns otherwise?
John walks clear through the detector, and so do I, despite carrying my fountain pen. So much for security. Idiots.
“And who might that be?” asks a gorgeous Black lady with a name tag that readsKarenbehind a desk that I assume also hosts the metal detector and thermal monitors.
“This is Inspector Jay. He’s here to inspect our offices,” John tells her.
She gives me the once-over, but since she’s not under my influence yet, she raises an eyebrow.
“Inspector? We don’t have inspectors, John. We’re a secret organization, remember? Who are you?”
I’m too busy running through her sentences in my head to notice she’s speaking to me.
Secret organization? I knew it.
They must be behind my family’s disappearance. The evidence is irrefutable.
Plus, I have a gut feeling, and my gut is never wrong. Except when it decides to react to me eating enchiladas, which, if you ask me, should never be wrong. Apparently, my gut disagrees.
“What are you doing here, sir? You need authorization to be in these offices,” Karen continues, and I shake off thoughts of exploding enchiladas and twirl my pen in my fingers.
“I can prove it. Hold on.” I approach and grab a manila envelope labeledConfidentialfrom her desk.
She starts to raise her voice, but I look her right in the eyes as I sign the envelope.
“This signature proves I am an inspector and I’m meant to be inspecting these offices. Okay?”
