The name settled into the air between them like dust after furniture has been moved.
Nia turned fully toward the woman still holding the boxes. She was stylish in the way of someone who understood presentation as currency—dark jeans that fit as if tailored, a structured blouse the color of deep wine, gold hoops small enough to be serious, a watch that looked expensive without advertising itself. Her hair was a short natural cut, precise. She did not look like a mistress caught mid-sin. She looked like a professional who had walked into the wrong meeting and knew it.
"You can put those down," Nia said. "Wherever you usually put them."
The sarcasm was thin. Simone Langford—though Nia did not yet know the surname—set the boxes carefully atop the stack beside the staircase. Her hands, Nia noticed, were free of rings. That detail meant nothing and everything.
"I should go," Simone said.
"You should stay," Nia answered, and heard the courtroom in her own tone, the executive training that had taught her to control rooms by deciding who left them. "Marcus said he would explain. You seem to be part of the explanation."