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She had been looking at a projection she already understood while her fingers rested on the trackpad without moving. The spreadsheet filled her screen, and the cursor sat on a cell she had already checked.
"Ms. Summers?" the receptionist’s voice came through the intercom speaker positioned near the door.
"There’s a courier downstairs. Certified delivery. He says it requires your signature."
"At this time?" she asked, glancing at the wall clock above the bookshelf ...
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