David pushed his tortoiseshell glasses up by the bridge and leaned back in his tufted leather chair.

The morning sun glinted off the silver frames as he looked away from the black leather purse sitting in my lap.

His oak-paneled office always smelled of old paper and lemon polish.

A big brass lamp threw a warm circle of light over a pile of legal files on the mahogany desk.

“You’re treading on extremely dangerous ground here,” David said.

I touched my collarbone.