No photographs.
No souvenirs.
No framed degrees.
No visible history.
Forty tailored suits hung inside a backlit closet in shades of gray, navy, and black.
The leather chairs in his office were expensive enough to start arguments and comfortable enough to put a man to sleep, but he only ever sat in one of them long enough to sign papers.
Every surface shone.
‘You remember her?’
Barnes gave a rough laugh.
‘Hard not to remember a child who shared lunch with that skinny white boy everybody pretended not to see.’ He shifted the paper sack to one hand.
‘You were him.’
Isaiah could only nod.
