“You done for the night?” I ask her.

“Yup. I was going over some tax filings with Oran. He’s still back there, if you want to say hi.”

“Oh, perfect. I’ll do that.”

She wrinkles her nose, looking me up and down. “What are you wearing?” she says.

I’d forgotten that I was still wearing jeans and cowboy boots. While Angela looks like me from three weeks ago, in a flawless cream blazer, cigarette pants, and Gianvito Rossi heels.

“Just . . . trying a new look,” I say.

Angela grins. “Not bad,” she says. “We should see if we can get Oran to agree to Casual Friday once Weiss retires.”

“Good luck with that,” I laugh. “You know Oran loves a three-piece suit more than anyone.”

“True.” Angela lowers her tone, leaning into my office a little further. “Hey, did you hear about Josh?”

“What?” I ask, playing dumb.

Angela grimaces. “He killed himself.”

“He did?” I say. I’m a terrible actor, but Angela doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too wrapped up in the drama of this particular piece of gossip.

“Yeah. Just yesterday. It’s so weird—I never thought he was the type. You know, he always seemed so full of himself. I guess I shouldn’t say that, now that he’s dead.”

“Why did he do it?” I ask her. I want to know if anybody’s heard about the embezzlement. Angela always knows what’s going on in the office—if there’s a rumor circulating, she’ll be the first to hear it.

But she just shakes her head. “Who knows! He was fighting with his girlfriend. But I bet it wasn’t that.”

“Huh,” I say. “Well I guess you never know . . . ”

She steps all the way inside, speaking even more quietly. “I bet it was a work thing.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well,” she casts a quick glance back over her shoulder in the direction of Uncle Oran’s office. “I saw Oran giving him shit a couple of times. Pulling him into his office for private chats, and then Josh came out looking stressed as fuck, like he got dressed down. And he was bragging to Lucy that the partnership was in the bag . . . but the rest of us thought you were going to get it. So if he found out it was yours . . . I could see him losing it.”

She catches the look on my face, and quickly adds, “Not like I’m blaming you for what he did! It’s not your fault—you deserve to make partner. You’ve worked your fucking ass off. So you shouldn’t feel bad about it. I’m just saying . . . he seemed kinda delusional about it. So I could see him freaking out, if it came as a surprise.”

“Yeah,” I say, slowly. “You might be right.”

“It’s just so weird,” Angela says. “He acted totally normal all day long! And then he leaves and just shoots himself . . . ”

I’m about to nod, but something catches in my brain—like a nail snagging on fabric.