She looked up, her face pale under the streetlamp.

It was Cassandra.

I pressed the buzzer to release the heavy iron door downstairs.

A few seconds later, the rhythmic sound of boot heels echoed up the wooden stairwell.

I stood by the open door of my apartment, my hand resting on the brass handle.

Cassandra reached the landing, her breath coming in short, even puffs.

She did not look like a woman who had just walked through a midnight downpour.

She took off her wet trench coat and draped it over her arm with deliberate care.

Beneath it, she wore a tailored gray pantsuit that looked as though it had been pressed an hour ago.

“You took your time,” she said, her voice flat and devoid of anger.

“It’s past one in the morning, Cassandra,” I said, stepping back to let her in.

She walked past me into the small living room, her eyes immediately scanning the space.

She noted the stacks of legal briefs on the coffee table and the cardboard boxes marked *DOJ – Closed*.

“Nice place,” she said, though her tone suggested the exact opposite.