Chapter 3: Griffin Tells the Truth

The security desk on floor twelve occupied a position that the firm's architects had clearly designed to suggest authority without conferring it — a low counter near the elevator bank, visible from the main corridor but not commanding it, staffed by whoever drew the morning shift from the rotation. Griffin had drawn it four days running. I found him there at twelve-forty, eating a sandwich from the deli on Fifty-Fourth with the methodical patience of someone who had learned to take his nutrition where the schedule allowed.

He looked up when I approached. He registered my expression. He put the sandwich down.

"You've got your quiet face on," he said.