Trish pushed open the unlatched door and peered into the shabby office, careful not to wrinkle her nose at the faded beige walls, the battered second-hand reception desk,
the cheap shades clinging to dirty windows. The only bright spots in the room were the flowers on the desk and the blond woman sitting behind it, staring intently at her computer screen.
Trish leaned in and rapped on the doorframe. "Hello?"
The woman -- receptionist? paralegal? one of the lawyers? -- looked up from her work with a distracted smile. "Hi, can I help you?"
"I hope so," Trish replied, double-checking the business card Jessica had given her. It said Nelson and Murdock, just like the plaque next to the door.
She could have afforded better, wished she could have offered it.
But Jess had been firm -- their client would be scared off by fancy uptown lawyers, so they needed something smaller, more humble, closer to home.
And it didn't get closer to home than Hell's Kitchen. Trish tucked the card in her jacket pocket and looked back up. "Nelson and Murdock? Defense attorneys?"
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