Wednesday evening, Rebecca sent a car. Not a taxi. Not an Uber. A car. Black sedan, driver in a suit, the kind of service that rich people use when they want you to understand that convenience is just another form of power. The restaurant was in Tribeca. Small, exclusive, the kind of place that didn't have its name on the door because if you needed to see the name, you probably weren't supposed to be there. The hostess greeted Rebecca by name and led us to a corner table that had enough distance from the other diners to make our conversation private without making it feel secretive. Rebecca ordered wine. I accepted a glass I had no intention of finishing. "Thank you for coming," she said once the sommelier had left. "I know this is unusual. But I wanted a chance to talk with you outside the office. Away from all the..." She gestured vaguely. "...performance." "Is that what this is?" I asked. "Away from performance?" She smiled. "I suppose that depends on whether you think anyone
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