Two pieces of paper had been left on my chest telling me what to do that evening.
I stood at my bathroom mirror. It was large and mounted over a grand double sink made of muted brown marble with flecks of red, which in my mild morning stupor I momentarily mistook for blood.
I leaned into the mirror to get a closer look at a round gray bruise on my right pectoral. It was neat, circular, as if created by a hand-held instrument, not a man’s fist. There were no marks on my face.
At my walk in closet, I chose a Tom Ford suit with a mild but discernible plaid. I added a pocket square (a nod to Professor Graves) and a mink-collared coat. I could not recall ever having been so excited to go to work.
It was a frigid day. The sidewalk was dusted with snow, pure and dazzling under a bold sun. The
