Michael Thompson shut the door of his office, which had neatly painted, navy blue walls and plush white carpet. He was middle aged and stocky, dressed in a bland suit and nice shoes. In his hand he held a small stack of papers, which he didn't take his eyes off.
A young woman sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair opposite the man's swiveling leather one. Her face was flushed, as if she had just seen a ghost, and she twiddled her thumbs. She turned slightly to face him, and looked him up and down before staring at the back of his seat again. "Lea, if you don't mind."
Thompson sat down, splaying the photocopied journal entries on his desk calendar and putting his thin-rimmed reading glasses on. He made no acknowledgment of the correction. "Miss Murphy, do you know why you're here?"
Lea shifted her weight. "No, sir. I can't say that I do." She was lying, of course; she was here because of Jack. All of the possible outcomes of this meeting were gnawing in her stomach to th