Don Juan nodded, then shifted his weight and crossed his arms while he waited for the reporter to rise and lead the way. He may have made two circuits of the place already, but he had no idea where anything was and he wasn't going to embarrass himself by wandering the wrong direction. When Abernathy was two steps ahead he followed. He'd expected the reporter to be taller; he didn't know why.

The conference room wasn't much better than Abernathy's desk in terms of fitting scenes for melodrama. It was bland, the furnishings pedestrian. At least it did have the benefit of a door, which Abernathy closed behind Don Juan. He took a critical glance around and then strode towards the room's sole window, envisioning that he would take station by it and peer out while he recounted the tale, but it only overlooked a nondescript alleyway. Nothing worth looking at. He turned, disappointed, and dropped into a seat at the conference table instead.

"How much of it do you already know?" he asked. He glanced towards the edges of the room, wondering if Abernathy would offer him a drink, but there didn't seem to be any kind of sidebar. Rather uncivilized, wasn't it? Surely they ought to have a little scotch around to steel people's nerves if they were recounting something particularly harrowing? Whatever. "I don't actually know what she told my brother."

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