There was a Post-It note on the bathroom mirror, with two words on it: “Handle. It.”
Tony studied the note, turning it over in his mind, his hands braced on the edge of the sink. The origin of the note was clear, the writing was unmistakably Steve’s. He was known to be a bit understated in written communication, but this was straight up brusque.
Tony lifted the note with one finger, hoping that more information would be forthcoming on the back, but there was nothing there. With a mental shrug, he reached for his razor. He’d figure it out. Hopefully before Steve finished his morning run and wanted to know if it, whatever ‘it’ was, had been ‘handled.’
It didn’t take him very long to figure it out.
The remains of the bread maker were a sad heap of broken parts and fractured panels, scattered across the kitchen floor. There was crime scene tape stretched around the broken machine, protecting the scene. On top of the counter, the toaster was wrapped in another strip of crime scene tape. Thor was holding him by the cord, scowling down at the toaster.
The toaster didn’t seem to care.
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