Patricia was already standing at the front counter when I walked in the doors at nine, her pocketbook looped over one arm, her rings tapping the laminate in a slow beat.

“I want her employer to know exactly what kind of person she is,” she told Denise behind the glass, loudly enough for the entire lobby to hear.

Denise was holding her pen up with nowhere to set it down.

“Natalie Whitcomb,” Patricia said, making my name sound like an item on an invoice.

“Ma’am, you need to sign in,” Denise said.

Patricia put down the pocketbook and opened it.