Sloan followed me, her boots clicking on the linoleum.

She handed me a paper cup.

The water was lukewarm and tasted of plastic.

“There is more, Mara,” Sloan said softly.

“Tell me,” I said.

“Our highway cameras picked up your father’s sedan on Wednesday morning at five,” she said.

“He drove to a self-serve car wash on the east side of the city.”

“Before he came to see me at the coffee shop,” I said.