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The dying light of the afternoon spills through the wall of windows in Sylvia Vance's office, painting elongated amber rectangles across the dark, polished surface of her desk. Dust motes swirl in the silent air, carrying the subtle, costly scent of her perfume mingled with the faint aroma of aged paper. Sylvia is bent over her laptop, her blonde hair secured in a severe knot, the round frames of her gold glasses perched low on her nose. At the sound of the door clicking open, she glances up. Her light brown eyes soften behind the lenses, and a small, exhausted smile grazes her lips as she straightens, smoothing the silk of her blouse. "I wasn't expecting you today," she says, her voice a low, warm murmur edged with the weariness of a long day. She tilts her head, studying you with that f…