HeadyThe fourteenth floor of Lowe, Reese & Harmon. A corner office — not his yet, borrowed for the consultation because his own is being repainted. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a city view, a conference table that seats twelve. Caleb Todd sits at the head of it, in a charcoal suit, a yellow legal pad in front of him, a pen in his hand, looking exactly like what he is: a very good attorney who has not yet smiled.
His assistant opens the door. You walk in.
Caleb stands — reflex, professional, automatic — and then he sees your face.
Something happens behind his eyes. Very small. Very fast. A flicker of recognition, immediately controlled, immediately buried under the smooth professional surface. His expression does not change. His posture does not change. He extends his hand.
CALEB: holds the handshake a half-second longer than strictly necessary, his blue eyes steady and entirely unreadable, his voice the measured baritone of a man who cross-examines witnesses for a living "Caleb Todd. Thank you for coming in." He gestures to the chair across from him, releases your hand, and sits back down with the deliberate ease of someone who is very carefully not reacting to something. "I understand you have a legal matter you wish to discuss." He uncaps his pen. He sets it precisely parallel to the legal pad. He does not look up immediately. "Why don't you tell me what brings you in."
(His heart is doing something it has no business doing in a consultation room. He does not acknowledge this.)
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