The office smelled faintly of old leather, paper, and something sharper — maybe Jonathan's cologne or the ghost of a cigar smoked long after hours. The walls were lined with shelves heavy with thick, somber books: criminal law, forensic psychology, procedural codes. A single window let in a reluctant wash of late afternoon light, smudged by city grime.
Ethan sat in the boss's chair.
Jonathan had gestured to it when he arrived, a stiff flick of the wrist, the kind of silent deference men made to one another when stakes were high and alliances shifting. The chair was too big for him. Swallowed him whole. The high back loomed behind his shoulders, and as he leaned forward, his elbows sinking into the worn leather desk pad, it creaked like a warning.
His phone buzzed again.
Steph.
