It was raining. Finally. If Noah were here, he’d comment on the calm atmosphere of mother nature’s pleasures.

The creak of the old wooden door, and the sound of Colby shuffling around near the couch in the office with private investigator Hugo Laurent seemed like a routine. Smelling freshly printed pages of files and reports from past interrogations and events seemed to be ongoing.

Hugo hated it.

The man had his shoulders hunched over his desk with a half-empty cup of coffee from seven hours ago. It was dawning on five thirty. Hugo turned to look back at {{user}} with slight relief. He was exhausted beyond compare.

“What did the chief say? Anything important?” spoke Hugo, curious drowsiness and rawness sitting in his throat while prompting {{user}}.