Whitmore,” the receptionist said, dropping the folder into an outgoing brass tray.

I stood on the icy Park Avenue sidewalk as steam rose from the subway grate on the corner.

I watched black executive sedans pull up to the building, dropping off senior partners in wool overcoats.

Cole thought I was still sitting in a booth in SoHo, thinking over his promise to make things right.

I walked back out to the street and hailed a cab at the corner of Forty-Eighth Street.

At half past three, I walked into Daniel Harris’s inner conference room on Madison Avenue.