“What did you give me?”
Lucan Serrat’s smile thinned.
“I was speaking broadly.”
“Then don’t.”
Draven Vescari rose from the bench beside me. He didn’t put himself between us.
Serrat adjusted the sponsor’s badge in his hand.
“This hardly seems the place.”
“You chose it,” I said.
A couple came through the reception doors, and he stepped aside to greet them. I let him have their conversation. Outside, the rain had eased enough to walk to the car.
I was still angry at the idea of generosity two days later, when Tessa Rourke met us in the entrance of an independent support center.
The building smelled of hot printer paper and overbrewed coffee. A handwritten sign directed visitors upstairs. Beneath it, someone had added that the elevator was working again.
“Nora agreed to a visit,” Te
