75: Backlash

Evelyn leaned on the sill of one of large drawing room windows, her forehead pressed against the glass. The intermittent rains and fitful breezes of the last week had become sustained downpours with whip-like winds over the course of the weekend in advance of a dark heavy line of clouds that hovered ominously on the distant horizon, but fortunately, hadn’t drawn nearer.

“There’s flooding in the streets below,” she rasped through her bruised and swollen throat.

On the sofa, Andrew flicked down the newspaper to look at her, uncertain he’d heard her correctly with her back turned and the noise of the storm outside. “Was that flooding you said, darling?”

Despite the sheeting rain on the windows and the occasional wind-driven bursts, she could still see part of Wilshire Boulevard from their vantage on one of the uppermost floors of the Ambassador.

There’d been warnings, of course—people urged to stay indoors. Still, a few vehicles eased their way down the flooding streets, wiper blades