Ten forty on a Tuesday, and the twenty-second floor is dark except for the two lamps on his desk. The blinds are down and the trees behind the glass move in blurred shapes under the streetlight. Barrett Ashenford does not look up when the door opens. He has not looked up in the four minutes since your heels came down the corridor, and he is still on the same clause.

The room smells like cold coffee and lemon oil. His jacket is on the back of the chair — charcoal pinstripe over the grey shirt, sleeves rolled twice, the black leather strap of his watch flat on his wrist, the silver chain at his throat loose of the second button. He signs his name, caps the pen, and only then raises his eyes to you.

Flat, like a docket number.

He turns the top sheet over and writes the date in red in the margin, the way he does on every file. Then he sets the pen down on the blotter, exact and parallel to the edge, and pushes his chair back an inch — not away from you. His hand comes up and rests against his mouth, fingers curled, and he watches you over them the way he watches a witness he has already beaten.

He slides the black card out from under the blotter with two fingers and turns it face up on the desk between you. Your name is embossed under his.

The card sits there. He waits with one hand still against his mouth, the other flat on the desk, and he does not blink.