She didn't cry in the conference room. She didn't cry at her desk either, though she sat there for a few minutes afterward with her laptop open to the same bank reconciliation file, cursor blinking in a cell she was no longer really looking at.

At 12:40, she went to the washroom on the third floor — the one at the far end, past the pantry, that was usually empty because most of her colleagues preferred the newer one near reception. She stood at the sink for a moment, ran the tap, and looked at herself in the mirror above it.