My phone buzzed at eight.

Arthur Vance’s office, confirming four thirty.

I jotted the time on a work order and taped it to the lamp.

At noon I drove over to the shop’s storage bay to meet Megan.

She’d asked for the back door, no front counter, no name on the schedule.

She was already waiting when I rolled up the bay door, a paper sack in one hand and two coffees in the other.

“One cream, no sugar,” she said.