The concrete floor of the parking garage smelled of damp exhaust and old motor oil when I locked my car at eight the next morning.

Spencer stood beside the support pillar near the elevators, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his tailored slacks.

He flinched when the metal door banged shut behind me.

“Look, Natalie,” he said, turning sideways so he wasn’t facing me head-on.

“You really shouldn’t have come today.”

“Your father’s attorney sent me a certified legal summons,” I said, holding my coat closed around my waist.

“It told me to be here at eight fifteen.”