Dallas backs away from the ridiculous glee on Giselle’s face, but she bashes her hip against the back of the couch, winces and clears her throat, “Well that’s awesome,” she squeaks. “What university decided they’re crazy enough to put its name on your crazy fringe theories.”
Usually when Dallas gives her shit about her work, Giselle laughs, maybe offers a friendly punch in the arm and a roll of her eyes, but this time she sobers pretty quickly, tugs at the flame-colored bangs lying haphazardly over her forehead, “Giselle?”
She stares back at Dallas for long enough to make her nervous before she finally takes a piece of paper from the top of one of the piles and hands it over, “Yours.”
Everything stops, and then Dallas stumbles back against the couch again, the paper falling from her suddenly limp and cold grip.
Finally, she takes a deep breath and picks it off the cracked linoleum, glares down at the letterhead, “It’s not mine,” her words catch in her throat.