@sourires-et-masques
He popped another trio of aspirin and ran his hand over his face.
At first, Elliott had been glad that he hadn’t ended up going to the gala. An invite had arrived at his office, all gilded and with smooth black ink, but he hadn’t been able to muster up the energy and effort to actually get off his couch. Anyway... there had been a rerun of an Islanders game that he’d missed due to a late night filing. To Elliott, hockey was far more preferable to spending an evening with his stuffy corporation.
And then he had been relieved. A relief that had quickly turned into utter panic and an as-yet undefeated three days of no sleep in an attempt to gather and compartmentalize as much information as he could about Diamond’s idiotic attempt and the tragic fallout. People shot, held hostage, it was a war zone without uniforms and safety precautions.
A job he was still at, relentlessly, barely stopping to eat and drink. He’d called that morning for Hannah Price to clear her schedule that afternoon. They would sit in his office until midnight if that’s what it took in order to get the truth straightened out. Because as soon as he knew the truth, the lie would be all the more believable.
Elliott stood, stared out at his currently unappreciated view of the city, and turned at the knock on his office door.
“Hannah, good, please,” he gestured to the set of leather chairs in the corner of the room, the glass table between them stacked with eyewitness accounts, police reports, and anything else he’d been able to scrounge up, “take a seat. I hope you ate, we’re going to be here a while.”