“Mrs. Waverly,” she said, her voice a blend of forced politeness and rising panic as she scrambled up. “Mr. Waverly is in a closed executive session with the board.

You can’t go in there.”

A year ago I would have apologized.

I’d have felt the heat rush to my cheeks, folded my hands, and waited for Preston Waverly to decide whether his wife deserved five minutes of his billable time.

But that timid, hopeful woman had died in a free-clinic waiting room, holding a terrifying diagnosis alone.

I didn’t even look at the receptionist. I kept walking, my worn boots sinking into the plush carpet.