The study was different during the day. A beautiful, golden glow filled the room, dust motes dancing in the shafts of light. The rich scent of leather, mixed with Trevor’s intoxicating patchouli and bergamot aftershave, was a refreshing relief after the stale, stifling air of the library.
I sat in the velvet chair opposite the desk. Trevor moved with a predator’s grace to the other side, sinking into his large, leather reclining chair. On the desk, the files and photographs from the night before were organised into neat, clinical piles. Two brown paper folders sat between us, the words The Contract embossed on the front.
Trevor poured himself a measure of Scotch and took a small, thoughtful sip. He cleared his throat and slid one of the folders across the polished wood toward me.
"Here
