A thin crescent of milk spread across the polished floor between us, reaching the toe of Connor’s expensive shoe.
A nurse hurried over with a caution sign and paper towels. Another gently moved the stroller back so the baby was away from the glass.
Connor stared at Kenneth Boyd as though my attorney had walked out of the elevator carrying a ghost.
“Kenneth,” I said quietly.
He came toward me with controlled steps, his dark gray suit perfectly pressed, his expression calm in the way only a very experienced attorney’s face could be calm. Kenneth had handled my divorce with the kind of steady professionalism I had desperately needed at the time. He never dramatized anything. Never raised his voice. Never promised revenge.
That was why the sealed folder under his arm made my stomach tighten.
Kenneth stopped beside me.
“Kirsten,” he said. “I’m sorry to come here.”
