CLAIRE
I opened the door.
His office up here was different from what I'd expected. I'd imagined a replica of the sterile, controlled environment downstairs, all glass and chrome and aggressive minimalism. Instead, it was warmer. Bookshelves lined two walls, stuffed with volumes that ranged from business strategy to history to what appeared to be a full collection of Dr. Seuss children's books on the bottom shelf. His desk was large but worn, an antique that didn't match anything else in the penthouse, scarred with ring stains and scratches.
A framed photo sat on the corner. Chloe as a baby, mid-laugh, reaching for the camera with both hands. And on the wall behind his chair, taped to the expensive wallpaper with the same painter's tape I used downstairs, were three of Chloe's drawings.
