I signed my name at the bottom of the intake application with Brenda’s ballpoint pen.

I folded the document twice and slid it into the inside pocket of my coat along with my forty-eight dollars in laundry quarters.

The third-floor room on Elm Street cost forty-eight dollars a week, paid in cash every Monday afternoon from my hotel laundry shifts.

At one forty-five the next afternoon, Chloe Park sat on the narrow cot, sorting certified bank affidavits across the faded cotton quilt while I typed legal transcriptions on her borrowed laptop.

“Detective Miller verified the wire transfers from Mercer Ridge LLC,” Chloe said without looking up from her legal pad.