“Let us take a look at your sedan,” she said.

The south parking lot was nearly empty, the asphalt dark from a light drizzle that had stopped an hour before.

My grey sedan sat near the chain-link fence, beneath the yellow glare of a security light.

Sloan walked around the passenger side, her eyes fixed on the lower panels of the doors.

“Did your father stand near the rear of the car when he met you?” Sloan asked.

“He stood by the driver’s side door,” I said.