The room felt smaller now, the air thick with the smell of whiskey and the faint leather scent of the folder Jonathan had pulled out. He dropped back onto the edge of the bed, springs creaking under his weight, and slid the thin stack of papers across the low tea table toward me.
"So, my babyboy Ezra…" he said, grinning wide as he leaned back on his hands. "She is your client."
I reached forward and picked up the top sheet. A photo was clipped to the front—color printout, slightly glossy. I tilted it toward the lamp light.
Her name was printed in neat black letters underneath the picture: Lara.
