The floor is polished to a mirror finish. When I glance down, I can see my own reflection as I walk toward the desk.
I approach the receptionist on the left. Her blonde hair is pulled back so tight that I consider for a moment informing her about the risks of traction alopecia. If nothing else, I should offer her some Advil from my purse, because she has got to have a wicked migraine.
“Hi!” I say, slapping on my best non-threatening smile. “My name is Jillian Pierce. I’m a reporter with the New York Times. I was hoping to speak with someone from the CEO’s office regarding a story I’m working on.”
Her face ices over. She looks at me the way you’d look at someone who wandered into the wrong building. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I don’t,” I reply apologetically. “I was hoping to set so
