I wheeled myself forward, my abdominal muscles burning with every small movement.

“Emma, wait,” Victoria called out from the curb, but the wind swallowed her voice.

I pushed through the automatic sliding doors.

The cold Denver air hit me like a physical blow.

It carried the sharp scent of wet pine, damp concrete, and car exhaust.

I stopped my wheelchair at the edge of the covered concrete ramp.

Down in the side lot, the shadow of the parking garage loomed dark and cold.

Thomas was standing near a thick concrete pillar, his hands deep in his jacket pockets.

A black Mercedes sedan glided to a stop a few feet from him.

The passenger window rolled down, and I saw the sharp profile of Margaret Parker.

Even in the dim afternoon light, her diamond earrings caught the reflection of the dashboard.

She opened the door and stepped out onto the wet asphalt.

Her beige trench coat was immaculate, contrasting with the gray concrete around her.

“Thomas,” she said.

Her voice carried clearly under the low ceiling of the garage, echoing off the damp walls.