I was sitting in the motel parking lot, staring at my phone, debating whether to call my father one more time, when a black Mercedes pulled up beside me. The window rolled down, and a woman in her fifties, elegant and composed, leaned out.
“Excuse me,”
she said, her voice smooth and professional.
“Are you Sophia Hartfield?”
I froze. My first thought was reporter. My second was process server. I did not answer.
“I’m not here to hurt you,”
she said.
“My name is Clara Mendes. I’m an attorney. I’ve been looking for you for three days.”
“I don’t have money for a lawyer,”
I said flatly.
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