Chapter 15

• The vast, window-lined penthouse office smelled of cigarette smoke, and the tang of high-end single malt whiskey.
• Taylor sat heavily on the midnight-blue sofa, his head in his hands. He was still wearing the clothes he’d slept in—expensive but creased—and his hair was a mess. Across from him, Maxwell.
• “You’re a proper mess, mate,” Maxwell observed, his voice calm, leaning back into the expensive cushioning. He didn’t sound judgmental, merely stating a fact. “Here, pour yourself one. You look like you need it more than I do.”