The annex building on Meridian was not the Tower.
The Tower was deliberate architecture — glass and steel arguing that everyone approaching it was coming to something, and it was not coming to them. The annex was a converted brownstone, eight floors, the kind of building maintained through the sort of attention that cost more than rebuilding. There was a doorman. Not a security desk — an actual doorman. Old money. A distinction that mattered in Crestholm.
"Nova Calloway," I told him. "Fourth floor. Damien Cole."
"He's expecting you," the doorman said.
The elevator was wood-panelled and smelled like old polish and sandalwood, and I stood in it going up and the Radio said: Three things. In order. Don't let him redirect you before you've said all three.
"I know," I said.
The fourth floo
