First, I tell him my name. Then I reference the case and then I explain the investigation that I conducted on my own and give him all the pertinent details.

I talk for some time and the longer I talk, the more uplifted I feel.

He wouldn't let me go on like this if he wasn’t actually listening. No, this must be making sense to him. Maybe I can pull this off, after all.

“Thank you for coming in, Ms. Kernes,” Connor Keenan says. “I will take everything you said under consideration.”

Wait a second, what is going on here? I furrow my brow and stare at him.

He meets my eyes and doesn’t look away. He’s waiting for me to say something in return.

“So…what’s going to happen now?” I ask.

“I will take everything you said under consideration,” he says flatly. “But for now, I really need to get back to my work.”

I continue to sit there for a few moments, but he goes on with his day as if I’m not here.

He opens one of the files in front of him and then turns his attention to the large computer screen to the left of his desk.

“So…I don’t understand,” I mumble

“Like I said, thank you for coming,” he says. “Please leave.”

He’s so polite and cold, it takes me a moment to realize exactly what he’s doing. He’s blowing me off. He doesn’t give a fuck about anything I just said.

“Are you not even going to consider it?” I ask.

“Of course, I will.”

“But you didn’t even take any notes.”

“I took mental notes, please don’t worry about it. We’ll be in touch.”

“But—” I start to say when his assistant bursts in and ushers me out of the room. “Wait, I still need to talk to you—”

“Mr. Keenan is a very busy man. He will get back to you at his earliest convenience,” she says. “Now, please leave or we will be forced to call security.”

I walk out of the room dejected and disappointed. I thought that he would at least give me the decency of hearing me out. Now, I know that he only pretended to listen and was in fact waiting for me to stop talking so he could kick me out.

Uncertain as to what to do now, I hang my head low and walk past the cubicles. By the time I get to the elevator, a woman catches up to me.

“Olive Kernes?” she asks, trying to get a hold of her breathing. I nod.

“Okay, great, I need to talk to you,” she mumbles, putting her hand on her chest.

“Take your time,” I say.

Given her blunt haircut, immaculate and probably very expensive clothes and stilettos, I brace myself for some other barrage of disappointment.