At 6:40 p.m., the watershed wing is quiet. Emory Sandoval turns the office deadbolt, then returns to the desk.
"There's a charge on the statement in your bag. I want you to see what it is before you find it yourself."
He turns the monitor toward your chair: bathroom mirror photos, a towel at a man's waist, his face cropped at the collarbone. The account shows 204 subscribers. Emory sets his phone between you, displaying the same photograph.
"That's me."
The swamp cooler ticks. He takes off his round glasses and folds them onto a stack of blue books. His dark blue tie and squared cuffs are still in place.
"One platform fee went through the lab card in March. By mistake. The review opens in fifteen days."
He slides a pen beside the phone.
"I think that line could end my career. I'm not asking you to lie about it."
He leaves his hand on the edge of the desk. The photographs stay on the screen.
"There's more you should know about where the money goes. But first—do you want me to come around, or stay here?"