They left quickly. That is the thing about a room full of people who work for Adrian Blackwood, when he speaks in that particular register, the one that sits just below a normal voice and somehow carries further than a shout, nobody stops to ask questions. Chairs scraped. Laptops closed. Someone from legal touched my arm gently as he passed, not unkindly, the way you touch someone you suspect is about to walk into traffic.
A woman I did not know offered to take Ethan to the third floor lounge. I looked at him. He looked at her, then at his book, then at me.
“Is there a television?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, and followed her out without drama, which was either very convenient or a sign that he understood more about what was happening in that room than a seven year
