The air smelled of wet leaves and damp concrete left over from the morning drizzle.

The coffee shop on the corner of Oakridge Avenue was tiny, with three laminate tables set beneath a faded yellow awning.

I ordered a cup of black tea and took a seat by the window where the glass wasn’t fogged.

A silver sedan nosed into the angled parking space right outside the curb.

Chloe Vance climbed out of the driver’s side holding a tall iced latte in a plastic cup.

She smoothed the front of her tailored gray skirt twice before she pushed the glass door open.