(Disclaimer: Okay. I get it. They're not mine. And I don't like it, trust me, but why would I want well-dressed scumbag lawyers showing up at my door?)
There's no other light in this room but for our desk lamps. Without phones ringing constantly and dozens of conversations going on at once, this place is oddly quiet.
The soft scratching of her pen stops and I look up to see her bent over her desk, head on her arm, looking just like I feel.
"You can go. I'll finish. I don't need the company."
She rolls her eyes. "I'll stay. Nothing better to do, anyway."
"Aren't we pathetic?" It's not really a question.
"No. Psychopaths aren't nine-to-fivers – why should we be any different?"