I walked down the long, carpeted corridor of Whitaker House, the portraits of past board members staring down at me from the mahogany walls.

The rain outside had intensified, throwing dark, moving shadows across the floor.

My heels clicked sharply against the hardwood border of the hallway as I hurried toward the reception area.

Dina was standing behind the circular reception desk, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

A young man in a yellow rain slicker stood near the heavy glass entrance doors, water dripping from his hood onto the slate tiles.

He held a thick, moisture-resistant courier envelope in one hand and a digital signature pad in the other.

“Emma Whitaker?” the man asked as I approached.

“Yes,” I said, trying to keep my breathing even.

“I need a physical signature and a photo of your ID for this one,” he said.

“It is marked as high-priority confidential from the county records division.”

I pulled my driver’s license from my wallet and handed it to him.

He scanned the ID, then handed me the stylus to sign the digital pad.