The room is the biggest conference room on the ninth floor, the one with plate-glass windows overlooking Central Park.

It's barely recognizeable as a conference room right now, though. Someone has removed the table and replaced it with a bewilderingly complex pattern laid out on the floor, in what looks like powdered chalk and red paint; it centers on a much smaller table, draped in dark fabric, against the far wall.

Brianna moves forward, carefully stepping over the lines of the pattern, lifting the guitar case to set it down on the little table.