At exactly 9:55 AM, a silver Mercedes sedan pulled into the parking lot.

It parked crookedly across two spaces right in front of my window.

Gloria Ralston stepped out of the vehicle.

She wore a tailored cream suit, despite the rising humidity.

Her pearl necklace was large and perfect.

Her face was set in a familiar expression of mild disgust as she looked at the neon sign of the dry cleaner’s next door.

She clutched a leather handbag and a small cardboard box.

She walked toward my door with her chin held high.

The small brass bell above my door chimed as she pushed it open.

“So, this is it,” Gloria said, setting the cardboard box on the edge of my small wooden desk.

She did not sit down.

She stood in the center of the room, her eyes scanning the cheap watercolor prints I had hung on the walls.

“It is clean,” she said, though her tone suggested she had expected dirt.

“It suits my needs,” I said.