Harcourt's office is even more intimidating than the waiting room.
Warm peach walls, dark wood bookcases, two tall windows, a heavy oak desk, and an old rug that probably costs more than everything I own. There are framed certificates on the walls, a painting of a country house above the fireplace, and a marble bust of Winston Churchill at the far end of the room.
Everything says money without needing to mention it, and I feel like the odd one out.
"Please," Harcourt says kindly, gesturing to the two chairs opposite his desk. "Take a seat."
I sit down, and Landry takes the chair beside me, immediately leaning back in the typical pose of an eighteen-year-old lad pretending he is completely relaxed.
But I know better.
He is supremely uncomfortable, wired to the point of an almost palpa
