Tanya glanced at Elliot, her eyes narrowing as if she sensed something shifting.
The junior staffer’s pen stopped tapping, his gaze fixed on the floor like he knew something no one else did.
Lysandra, meanwhile, was in a cab, her backpack on the seat beside her.
The driver, an older guy with a thick Boston accent, glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Rough day, huh?”
he said, nodding at her bag. She smiled, just a little, and said: “You could say that.”
Her phone buzzed again. Another text from Claire: “They’re scrambling. Email went out. You ready for tomorrow?”
Lysandra didn’t answer right away.
She looked out the window, watching the city blur by—neon signs, people rushing, a street vendor packing up for the night.
She thought of her dad years ago, standing in their old kitchen, telling her: “People show you who they are when they think you’re nobody.”
