His silk tie was loose at the collar, his polished wingtips were scuffed at the toes, and he held a brown leather folder flat across his knees.

When he saw me coming down the tiled corridor, he stood up quickly, tapping his gold pen against his wristwatch.

“We need two minutes, Rebecca,” he said under his breath so the county deputy at the security desk wouldn’t turn around.

“Before Marcus Vance files those certified custody copies with the county recorder.”

“The judge signed the protective order, Daniel,” I said, pressing my lips together before I said it firmly.

“There’s nothing left to negotiate.”