A gray fabric couch stood against the white wall, across from a low wooden desk and an office chair.

I wheeled my two heavy suitcases into the bedroom closet and stood them on the carpet.

The closet had twelve empty wooden hangers and a small electronic safe on the top shelf.

I put my laptop on the desk, opened my email, and found a meeting confirmation from Sarah Mitchell’s paralegal.

The meeting was scheduled for noon at her office on LaSalle Street.

I locked the apartment’s front door, rode the elevator back down to the garage, and climbed into my car.