She tapped the pen twice.

“I intend to be at that table.

With or without a hostage negotiation.”

We paid at the register and carried the receipt out into a parking lot where the wind was pushing a styrofoam cup along the curb.

The trunk of Rachel’s car held a golf umbrella, a case of bottled water, and my overnight bag.

I unzipped the bag on the edge of the trunk and dug past a nightgown to the yellow folder Arthur Sterling had handed me at the closing table.

“Hold the paper,” Rachel said.