Suits Trevor Direct

It was a bluff. A beautiful, reckless bluff. Two years ago, over bad beer and worse pool, Mike Ross had let that name slip. Dumont. Harvey’s white whale. A case that had gotten away, a client who’d flipped. Trevor had filed it away in the same mental drawer where he kept other people’s fears and favorite credit cards.

The fluorescent lights of the bullpen hummed a low, accusatory note. Trevor Evans shifted the weight of the duffel bag on his shoulder, feeling the phantom itch of a cheap wool blend beneath his fingers. He wasn’t wearing the suit yet. It was folded inside the bag, a calculated prop. suits trevor

Silence. Harvey’s expression was a perfect, polished mask. It was a bluff

“You could have just sold the Dumont info to a rival firm,” Harvey said quietly. “Made a hundred grand. Instead, you came here. Why?” Dumont