The lobby smelled of floor wax and stale drip coffee, just as it had every time I had brought Greg his forgotten lunch over the last fifteen years.

Denise Vance sat behind the laminate front desk, typing with two fingers, her tortoiseshell reading glasses resting high on the bridge of her nose.

“Claire,” Denise murmured, dropping her voice as soon as the glass entrance doors slid shut behind me.

“I didn’t expect to see you today.”

“Greg left his spare reading glasses on his nightstand,” I said, setting a small black leather case on her blotter.

“I thought he might need them for the site estimates.”