FADE IN: INT. COLE FORENSIC PARTNERS, IRIS'S OFFICE, NEW YORK, 11:20 PM The office is empty except for one light. IRIS COLE (39) sits at a desk that has been organized into quadrants. Upper left: a printed audit report, sixty pages minimum, flagged with yellow tabs at precise intervals. Upper right: the corresponding digital file on a monitor, the cursor parked at a specific row. Lower left: a spiral notebook, open, the handwriting inside it small and exact. Lower right: a mug of coffee, cold, forgotten. She is lean, sharp-featured, her dark hair pulled back with the kind of efficiency that does not involve a mirror. Wire glasses. A jacket that has been good for ten years and will be good for ten more. She looks like someone who decided early that appearance was a variable she could control by removing it as a variable. Her eyes move between the printed report and the screen. Her right hand holds a highlighter. When she finds what she is looking for, she marks it: one clean stroke, no hesitation. She makes a note in the spiral notebook. Then she turns back to the screen. Her phone lights up on the desk. She lets it ring once. Then she picks up on the second ring. IRIS Cole. OWEN (V.O.) Ms. Cole. Owen Tarr. I hope I'm not calling too late. IRIS You are not. What can I do for you? OWEN (V.O.) I have a situation at the fund1