Gurney opened a swinging panel in the low barrier and held it for Kim. It was dusty, like the two unoccupied desks behind it. He followed her into the back office—a windowless room with a large mahogany table, four straight-backed chairs, and bookcases on three of the four walls. The bookcases were filled with fat volumes on accounting rules and tax laws. The pervasive dust had settled on the books as well. The air smelled stale.

The only illumination came from a desk lamp at the far end of the table. There was a fluorescent fixture on the ceiling, but it was turned off. As Kim surveyed the room for places to set up her cameras, she asked if it could be turned on.

Mellani shrugged and flipped the switch. After a series of hesitant flashes, the light stabilized, producing a low buzz. The fluorescent glow emphasized the paleness of his skin and the shadows below his eyes. There was something distinctly cadaverous about him.

As she had done in Stone’s kitchen, she went through the process of arranging the cameras. When she was finished, she and Gurney sat on one side of the mahogany table, Mellani on the other. At that point she gave, almost word for word, the same speech she’d given Stone about the production goals of informality, simplicity, naturalness—keeping the interview as close as possible to the kind of conversation two friends might have in their home, loose and candid.

Mellani didn’t reply.

She told him that he should feel free to say anything he wished.

He said nothing, just sat and stared at her.

She looked around the claustrophobic space, whose inhospitable drabness the ceiling light had only managed to enhance. “So,” she said awkwardly, seeming to realize that she would have to be the motivator of whatever conversation they were going to have, “this is your main office?”

Mellani seemed to consider this. “Only office.”

“And your partners? They … they’re here?”

“No. No partners.”

“I thought … the names … Bickers … and …?”

“That was the name of the firm. Formed as a partnership. I was the senior partner. Then we … we parted ways. The name of the firm was a legal thing … legally independent of who actually worked here. I never had the energy to change it.” He spoke slowly, as though struggling with the unwieldiness of his own words. “Like some divorced women keep their married names. I don’t know why I don’t change it. I should, right?” He didn’t sound as if he wanted an answer.

Kim’s smile became more strained. She shifted in her seat. “Quick question before we go any further. Shall I call you Paul, or would you prefer that I call you Mr. Mellani?”

After several seconds of dead silence, he answered almost inaudibly, “Paul’s okay.”