“What are you looking for?” she asked. “You said you had an idea?”
Arachal was bent over the front seats of his black Mustang and rifling through the glove compartment. “I do. I’m looking for—ah, here we are.”
Withdrawing his long frame from the car, he held up a stack of pink sticky-notes in one hand, a black marker with Warrant Sciences embossed on its gray surface in the other.
“Pink?” asked Rachel. “I don’t remember pink.”
Arachal raised an eyebrow. “What color should they be?”
