I rolled the window down two inches.
The hot morning air poured into the car, carrying Nick’s expensive cologne—Creed *Aventus* mixed with stale mint gum and twenty years of family vanity:
“Sebastian,” Nick said, his voice dropping into that smooth, condescending, executive drawl he used when canceling an employee’s health insurance:
“You’ve been sitting in this parking stall for twenty minutes.
The property management company has a strict policy regarding terminated personnel loitering on commercial premises.”
Nick pointed his manicured index finger toward the public street:
“I need your parking transponder.
And I need you to surrender your corporate laptop before twelve o’clock, or I will have the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department file an emergency grand larceny report against your name.”
I didn’t answer him.
I reached out, unclipped the plastic RFID parking transponder from my rearview mirror, and held it out through the two-inch gap in the glass.
