And then, because I have my mother in me whether I like it or not, I put the basket down and went to find a pen.

Chapter 2 — A Lawyer of Her Own

Kit Boone practiced out of the second floor of a brick building on Gay Street, above a tax preparer and next door to a shop that sold nothing but zippers.

There was a bell on the door and a hand-lettered sign that said RING IT, I’M IN HERE.

She was in her fifties, built like a fence post, with reading glasses pushed up into gray hair and a coffee cup that said WORLD’S OKAYEST GOLFER.

She did not stand up when I came in.

“Sit,” she said. “Talk. I’ll stop you when you get to the part that matters.”