I stood in the quiet kitchen for two minutes, looking at the pink denim jacket on the chair.

At four o’clock I called Natalie Price’s direct office line and offered her twenty minutes at a diner table before her morning shift.

At eight on Thursday morning, Natalie sat across from me in a back booth at the Main Street Diner.

She kept her beige trench coat buttoned up to her throat.

She turned the silver chain bracelet on her right wrist three times before she looked up from her coffee.

“Grant said you were cooking up frivolous administrative complaints to mess up the firm’s fall licensing,” Natalie said.