“He was my ex-father-in-law’s estate attorney,” I said.

David checked his watch a third time and drummed his index finger on the edge of his clipboard.

“Take ten minutes in the break room and get it sorted out.

We’ve got three freight trucks backing into bay four as we speak.”

“Thanks, David,” I said.

The break room smelled like floor wax, bleach, and cold paper cups that had been sitting out since the morning shift.

The cheap window air conditioner above me rattled in its metal housing, sending a constant shiver down the yellow drywall.

I pulled out a gray metal folding chair and sat, clutching my purse tight against my knees.

I dialed the downtown number printed beneath the law firm’s letterhead.

The call connected on the second ring.

A receptionist put me through without asking a single question, and the line clicked three times before a man picked up with a low, exact voice.

“Thomas Bellamy speaking,” the voice said.

“Is this Ms.

Natalie Whitcomb?”