The voice on the other end of the phone did not offer sympathy.It never did.“You better clean up this mess," the caller said, his tone flat and razor-edged. “And you better do it quickly.”There was a pause not the kind that comes from hesitation, but the kind that comes from someone who wants their next words to land with full weight.“Mr. Bushman will not get himself involved in whatever disaster you are about to create,” the voice continued. “You understand that, don't you? He does not do mess. He does not clean up after people who cannot handle simple tasks.”The word simple was delivered with a particular kind of contempt.“A simple task,” the caller repeated. “And you couldn't do it.”Penelope's brother said nothing.He stood very still, his jaw locked, his free hand pressed flat against his thigh.“I trust you have a better explanation ready,” the caller said. “Because when Mr. Bushman asks—and he will ask you are going to need more than excuses.”Then the voice shifted, be