The high-rise office building on Biscayne Boulevard smelled of polished leather and expensive citrus air freshener.

Attorney Lawrence Vance sat at the head of a sixteen-foot glass conference table between two junior associates with yellow legal pads open in front of them.

“I appreciate you coming all the way downtown, Valerie,” Vance said, checking his gold pocket watch before resting his forearms on the table.

“Though frankly, this meeting is a courtesy your father insisted on.”

I sat in the leather chair across from him, keeping my back straight and my hands resting quietly in my lap.