The offices were on the forty-seventh floor of a building in midtown, and they were impressive in the way her father’s things tended to be—substantial without being performative, the kind of impressive that comes from long-term quality rather than immediate display. Her office had been prepared for her: a desk, a phone, a clean whiteboard, and a view that took in a wide arc of the city, the parks green in the distance, the river bright and steady beyond the buildings on the east side.
She stood at the window for a minute. Then she turned, sat at the desk, opened her notebook, and went to work.