The ash sifted down through the iron grate, leaving only a faint smell of smoke in the bright room.

At two that afternoon, the heavy oak door of David’s law office swung closed behind me.

The room smelled of old paper, leather bindings, and lemon polish.

David sat behind his wide mahogany desk, pushing a tall pile of manila folders toward the middle of the green blotter.

I sat down in the leather guest chair across from him and put my purse on the floor.

I folded my hands in my lap.