The newspaper office was smaller than Eleanore expected. It was a cramped, ink-stained building tucked between a print shop and a tailor's, with stacks of old papers piled haphazardly against every wall. The moment she and Victor stepped through the door, the young clerk at the front desk went visibly pale.
"We're looking for Pat Pattison," Victor said, tone even but carrying enough weight that the clerk straightened immediately.
"He's, um—" The clerk's eyes darted toward the back hallway. "He should be in his office, let me just—"
The sound of a door slamming somewhere further back answered the question before the clerk could finish the sentence.
