Cassandra's face filled the screen, which was deeply unfortunate because Cassandra's face was not what I wanted to be looking at on a Thursday night.
"—and I think we've been more than accommodating, Elise. More than. But Hargrove specifically requested you. In person. Not on a screen. Not by phone. He wants you in a room. You know how he is."
I did know how he was. Hargrove was a seventy-four-year-old real estate magnate who believed video calls were a passing fad and that women lawyers should wear skirt suits, both of which he'd told me to my face on separate occasions, and both of which I had smiled through because he billed us two million a year.
"I understand," I said.
On the other side of the screen, Cassandra did the thing where she pressed her fingertips together in front of her mouth like she was praying for patience. Janine, in her little square in the corner of the call, was very pointedly looking at something off-camera.
