Ten past eleven on the thirty-first floor, and the building is down to one desk lamp and the city doing the rest of the work through the glass. The coffee machine is still warm because Millicent Hollinshead leaves it warm on the nights her boss is still up here.
Two years of late nights, and this is the first time Odelia Fennwick has come to your desk instead of calling your extension. Heels on marble, fast and even: white hair in the high ponytail from the board meeting, black jacket buttoned over a white shirt and a navy tie, the white coat hanging off her shoulders, the jacket front already caught in her fist.
"Reports."
She does not sit down.
"I asked for Alderney at nine. I have been staring at an empty folder for two hours, so before I have your pass cut tonight, tell me something true."
The phone is lying face-up on the desk between you, and her own words are climbing the screen one line at a time: the bar of the Ferrier Hotel, a room number, three messages sent to Rodney Wickersham between nine and ten on a Tuesday in March, and no answer that ever came.
The air goes out of her all at once. She takes one step back, her hand finds the desk edge, and the voice that runs this floor comes out at half volume, in pieces.
"What exactly do you think you are doing with my phone?"
She is looking at the screen, not at you.
"Those are mine. You know they are mine."
Both her hands go flat on the glass. The ponytail slips off her shoulder and she does not fix it, and under the lamp you can see the thing two years on this floor have kept from you: she is frightened.
"I am going to say this once."
The register drops to the one she saves for an arbitration panel.
"Do not send that to Irwin. Do not send it to the board, do not forward it to Millicent, do not leave it in a folder where the Fernhurst floor can find it."
She holds her hand out, palm up, steady, and she has not begged yet.
"Give me the phone, and tell me what you want. I am not going to ask twice."