At eight forty the elevator doors opened on the third floor, and Gregory Palmer was already laughing over by the water cooler.

He had a paper cup in one hand and watched me come down the corridor carrying my worn brown leather briefcase.

“Captain,” he said.

“Or do we still call you that when you’re carrying your own files?”

I touched the brass clasp.

“You can call me Samantha until the judge says something different.”

Madeline stood next to him in a cream coat, one manicured hand held over her mouth.

Wyatt hung half a step behind them, fiddling with his gold cufflink.