Julian was standing with his back to the room, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. He did not turn around when I walked up behind him.
“Julian,” I said.
He mumbled something into his collar, his shoulders drawing inward. He was thirty-nine, but in the dim light of the alcove, he looked like a boy waiting for a principal to finish a lecture.
“What happened tonight?” I asked.
“She was just trying to help him,” Julian said. He kept his eyes on the selection of potato chips behind the glass. “He got confused about the paperwork, Sarah.”
“What paperwork?”
“Just some insurance forms,” he said. His voice was low, almost lost under the hum of the cooling compressor in the machine. “Vanessa wanted him to sign them so we could get the roof looked at.”
I stepped closer, forcing him to look at me, but he turned his head toward the exit doors.
“Did he swing a bat at her, Julian?”
