She pulled up the suitcase handle, wheeled it to the door, and bumped the wheels over the threshold without once looking back at him.

The courthouse corridor smelled of floor wax and someone’s microwaved lunch.

Trent sat on the bench outside Mediation Room B with his knees spread wide and his hands dangling between them.

He’d bought a suit for the occasion.

The jacket strained across his shoulders, and the cuffs ended an inch above his shoes.

“You look exhausted,” he said.

“I’ve got a company to run.”

He laughed once, a single syllable, and then dropped it.