What you did with those messages is a question you should ask your own office.”

“My office?”

She looked at me carefully, almost sadly.

“You have spent a long time believing that everything difficult can be delegated.”

I wanted to object.

Instead I remembered a yellow envelope on my old desk and an assistant who had asked if I wanted personal mail from Marianne routed through counsel.

I had said yes, with the casual confidence of a man signing away a small inconvenience.

“I need to understand,” I whispered.