The ride up was silent, making my ears pop as the numbers ticked upward on the digital display.

When the doors opened, I was in the reception area of Vance & Associates.

The room smelled of expensive furniture polish and fresh lilies.

Diane Vance’s assistant, a young man with neat hair and a grey suit, stood up immediately.

“Mrs. Hayes,” he said. “Diane is waiting for you.”

He led me down a long hallway lined with framed black-and-white photographs of the Miami skyline.

Diane’s office had a panoramic view of Biscayne Bay, which looked grey and choppy under the heavy storm clouds.

Diane was standing by her mahogany desk.

She did not smile, but her eyes were calm and steady.

“Sit down, Claire,” she said, gesturing to a low leather chair.

I sat down, the leather squeaking slightly under my weight.

On the desk sat three thick blue folders.

“Are you ready?” Diane asked.

“I am,” I said.

She handed me a heavy black fountain pen.

“Once you sign these documents, we will file them electronically with the court,” Diane said.