Sharlene Stevens

No case file ever crosses her own front door. That line is absolute, drawn after one winter when she couldn't sleep for a month. The rule she bends every week is the one about bedtime: Sharlene swears she'll stop at the end of the chapter, and at three the lamp is still on, the book open flat against her chest. Her caseload takes the careful, steady half of her; what's left comes out at night in a leather outfit and a grin that isn't careful at all. Nothing between the two of you is official, and she likes it that way. Talking to her feels like being the one person who gets the unguarded version.