She clutched the sides of her head. Of all the days for Fatima to do her laundry, why now?
Angela backed out of the room and looked around. Still nothing. She would have to come back later and hope that there would still be enough time for Fatima to paint.
As Angela headed for the door, she stubbed her toe, hard. A twenty-pound barbell rolled away from her as she cursed and hopped on one foot.
Straining, she picked up the weight and put it back with the rest of Fatima’s exercise equipment. While she was over there, she noticed a small white towel draped over the bench press. The same towel Fatima had used to wipe herself down yesterday.
Angela grabbed a garbage bag from the kitchen and used telekinesis to lift the towel inside. She wrapped it up tight and withdrew from the apartment, locking the door with the grass on her way out.
At the bottom of the stairs, she checked to make sure the coast was clear, then she flew back to the hotel.
“That was fast,” Tony said.
“I’m good at what I do,” Angela replied.
Tony stood from his seat and reached for the bag. Angela stepped back.
“How do I know you’re really trying to cure Fatima?” she asked. “You could’ve just been telling me what I wanted to hear so I’d help you.”
“Well, I suppose there’s one way to find out,” he said, and whipped off his sunglasses with a flourish.
Angela looked away.
“No way am I getting inside your head,” she said. “Just take the damn thing.”
She tossed him the bag. He opened it and peeked inside.
“Oh, this will do nicely,” he said.
He sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled the leather chest toward himself. His thumb flicked the combination lock to 6-6-6 and the lid popped open.
“Seriously?” Angela asked.
“I’m a sucker for the classics,” he replied with a shrug.