He was up before seven. Made coffee, got dressed, and drove. Carolyn’s studio was a converted warehouse in the arts district, her name on a small brass plate beside the door. She met him in the entrance — mid forties, nervous hands, apologetic eyes — the look of someone who’d rehearsed a difficult conversation many times and still wasn’t ready for it.
“Mr. Callahan.” She shook his hand with both of hers, a gesture that managed to be both professional and genuinely sorry. “Thank you for coming. I have everything set up in the back.” The editing room was small and dominated by a large monitor, wedding portfolios stacked along the shelves, morning light coming thin and pale through a dusty window overlooking the alley.