Paying three hundred thousand dollars of debt before being ordered out of the house
I opened my briefcase and pulled out the duplicate copy of the agreement, tracing his hurried signature with my index finger.
The document lay open under the harsh light of the motel desk lamp.
The legal binding was complete, but the physical reality of my displacement was still settling into the quiet room.
My phone vibrated against the wood, the screen lighting up with a text message from David Vance.
The message contained only an address on Cary Street and a time.
Eight-thirty.
I closed the laptop and laid my coat over the back of the chair, prepared for the cold morning ahead.
The office on Cary Street was quiet when I arrived, the reception desk unoccupied at that early hour.
David Vance stood by the window of his office, holding a mug of black coffee while the morning sun fought through the Richmond haze.
He set the mug down and picked up his wire-rimmed glasses, cleaning them slowly with his blue silk cloth.
“You look like you slept in your car, Clare,” David said, his voice quiet.
“The Pine Crest has very firm mattresses,” I said, setting my briefcase on his desk.
