Tess does knock anyway, somewhere between fuck your fancy door, William and this entire hallway must know how pissed I am. When he opens up, she gives him a cursory look-over and then moves by him like some sort of caged wildcat, ready to pace up and down for hours with nothing else to do. Anger in quarantine: nowhere to be, no work to do, nothing but time to stew. No blood, but her button-up shirt hangs open, her tank top low enough to show off a barely-scabbed-over gunshot wound that looks freshly irritated.

His question distracts her from being immediately ticked-off by his prissy, rich-guy, glossy-magazine, bullshit home dec, but suddenly that's simmering too.

"Hard to say," she replies, darkly, "but she was running her mouth."