“Update complete,” she said.

She wrote the time on the form and initialed it.

“You want certified copies of these pages, plus the request I filed?”

“Two copies.

One for me, and one for whoever ends up reading it.”

She fed the form into the copier, and the machine threw a green bar of light across her hands.

“When you find out who D.M. is,” I said, “I want it on paper.”

Marisol slid the copies into a large envelope and smoothed the flap down with her thumb.