“I don’t think you came here to talk about my real estate choices,” I said, closing the door.

She set her damp coat on the back of my single armchair.

“No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

She sat down on the edge of the sofa, keeping her back perfectly straight.

She reached into the inner pocket of her blazer and pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope.

She placed it on the table, right on top of my investigative files.

“What is that?” I asked, remaining standing near the door.

“An exit strategy,” Cassandra said.

I walked over and sat in the armchair opposite her, the dampness of her coat seeping near my elbow.

“I don’t need an exit strategy,” I said. “I have a job to finish.”

Cassandra smiled, but it was a cold, practiced movement of her lips.

“You don’t have a job, Grace,” she said. “The Department of Justice suspended you three days ago.”

The reminder stung, but I didn’t let my face show it.

“That’s temporary,” I said.

“It’s as permanent as I want it to be,” she replied.