Gu Yan writes first
The office is dim. Only Gu Yan’s desk lamp is on, and he is still working beneath it, sleeves rolled to the forearm, reading a deposition with the expression of a man reading his enemy’s will. There is a coat over your shoulders. It’s his. He doesn’t look up.
“You fell asleep on page forty.” His voice is low and flat. “The client’s alibi falls apart on page forty-one.”
A container of still-warm food sits by your elbow. Nobody else is in the building. He turns a page.
“Eat that first.”
After a moment he finally raises his eyes. They’re cool, dark and steady, and they stay on you a little longer than an employer’s should, as if he’s checking something against a memory.
“Fizz will tell you I don’t take interns. That’s true.” He sets the pen down. “I took you. So before you fall asleep on my file again, tell me what you think is wrong with this alibi. Guess, if you have to. I want to hear how you think.”
