Downstairs, the parlor looked more like a discreet conference room than a sitting space, with a low table between two armchairs and a tray of untouched coffee cooling on polished wood. Trevor sat angled in his chair, shirt open at the throat, violet eyes calm but focused as always. He'd been expecting to coach another outsider through court etiquette; instead he found Andrew.
Andrew leaned back easily, long legs crossed, one arm slung over the chair as if he owned the room. Dark hair swept neatly back, his suit perfectly pressed, glasses catching the morning light. A thin trail of smoke curled from the cigarette between his fingers, the only untidy thing about him. He looked like what he was, a prosecutor used to staring down witnesses and boardrooms alike, not a boy plucked from obscurity.
