A square. A big fat nobody. Sitting at her desk with her head bowed and her gaze fixed on the keys of her IBM Selectric, she didn’t need to glance at the clock to know the hour had arrived. She’d been ticking away the seconds until quitting time in her head—one Mississippi, two—having spent the last five minutes putting her desk in order, the same as always. Never making small talk. Not once looking up. She squared her typewriter so it lined up with the edge of her desk, fanned out the pencils in her smiley-face mug like the feathers of a peacock. Have a nice day! Even the heavy glass ashtray she’d never used was meticulously placed at the corner, leaving exactly two inches around two of its four sides. Smoking, in Barrett’s opinion, was a sin reserved for the weak. But Barrett’s opinion didn’t matter to the staff of Rambert & Bertram. Every desk in the office sported the same ashtray, as if inviting the devil to mingle within the office pool.
