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A Worse Idea 112

‘Innocent’ is a word that very rarely described Anne.

Was she innocent of Ricky’s murder? Nope.

David’s murder? Nope.

Janet’s murder? Nope.

Building a giant mech that wrecked shit? Nope.

Stealing Wild Whip’s whip? Nope.

That’s what made this situation so peculiar. You see, she was innocent when she drove her car into Prometheus’s garage. She parked, got out, and was ready to get to work.

Sharise and Prometheus? They were less innocent. They had one goal, one goal only, and it had nothing to do with work: they wanted to steal Anne’s phone without her suspecting anything.

Within seconds of arriving, Anne asked, “Why are you staring at Prometheus like that?”

“What?” Sharise asked, scratching her nose while she turned around and pretended to stare at the jizz through the microscope. “No idea what you’re talking about.” In fact, she’d been trying to communicate to Prometheus via eye signals, but he totally hadn’t understood it.

Shit, Prometheus thought. Think fast.

“Uh, hey Anne,” he said. “What sort of phone do you have?”

She took it out of her pocket. “iPhone 6. Why?”

“Just wondering is all,” Prometheus said. Sitting at one of the metal desks with a computer, he began typing gibberish.

Heaven help me, he thought. I can’t punch this problem.

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