The same hotel. Same quiet that swallowed conversations whole.
Richard Carney was already seated when she arrived.
She had expected someone who looked like power. What she hadn't expected was how quietly it sat on him. He was in his early sixties, silver-haired, the kind of man whose suits were expensive in a way that didn't announce itself. He stood when she approached — not quickly, not performatively, just as a matter of course — and shook her hand with a grip that was firm without trying to be.
"Ms. Hastings." His voice was measured. Warm without being familiar. "Thank you for coming."
"Of course," Maya said.
She sat down. A waiter appeared and Carney ordered tea without looking at the menu. Maya did the same.
She had told herself on the way here that she would listen more than s
