Twenty minutes later, the brass latch on Room 114 at the Pines Motel clicked shut behind him.

The room smelled of damp carpet and faint citrus cleaner.

Attorney Lin set his worn leather briefcase on the laminate table, pulled out a vinyl chair, and steepled his fingers while he listened to me talk.

“He canceled my cell phone plan this morning,” I said, laying the old blue flip phone on the bedspread between us.

“He froze the joint account at the bank.

He thinks I am completely out of options.”