I pulled away before she went in.

The diner on Route 7 smelled of bacon and burnt toast, same as always.

Nicole had already grabbed the corner booth and spread three folders across the table.

“I paid off the handwriting expert’s invoice,” I said.

“Four hundred and twelve dollars.”

Nicole tapped her pen on her coffee cup.

“That’s less than my last parking ticket.”

“You don’t even own a car.”