“And the valet parking receipt?”

“In my folder,” Martha said, tapping the legal pad.

“Everything is ready for nine in the morning.”

I sat alone on the wooden bench, eight months pregnant, holding my baby bump with both hands as the heavy oak doors swung shut.

Martha opened the heavy oak door of the private consultation room at the end of the hall and waved me inside.

The tiny room smelled of damp wool coats, old paper, and cold instant coffee from a Styrofoam cup on the windowsill.