10 NoraThursday morning, Nora banged the receiver down on the desk console and barged out of her office. Fuming, she pounded down the utilitarian metal staircase, feeling the vibrations through her sneaker soles and inhaling the concrete odor of the walls. She hit the ground floor, shoved out the fireproof inner door, and stomped into Quinn’s lair.
He stood in the corner of his boxy office, pawing through the top drawer of his Steelcase filing cabinet. She could see the knobs of his spine beneath his long-sleeved tan T-shirt, its hem hanging out over loose-fitting jeans. Dressed as casually as she was in her faded Wranglers and lemon-yellow cotton Tee—no court today for her or the Center coordinator.
She had him where she wanted him—cornered. The enemy had dropped a bomb on her case. She
