The day started off like any other morning of late: faltering masks and blurred indifference.
Sometime during mid-morning, Libby, the receptionist, knocked on our door.
“There’s someone here to see you,” she said and stepped aside.
Behind her stood a short man who was less than memorable. His voice, however, was unforgettable: deep baritone that resonated on the walls, and much louder than I expected from his small frame.
“Delilah Palmer? Nathan Thorne?”
“Yes?” We moved from our desk to stand in front of him.
He held out an envelope to each of us.
“You have both been served with a subpoena by the defense attorney.”
My eyes grew wide, my gaze flickering to just outside the door and the few gawkers we had developed. While I was looking, Andrew appeared in the doorway.
“Can you tell
