My cane taps against the polished floor in an uneven rhythm that matches my racing heart. The antiseptic smell of the federal building burns my nostrils, but beneath it lurks something worse—a hint of designer perfume seeping from under the door. Chanel No. 5. Her scent. My stepmother's signature fragrance that used to precede the sound of my bedroom door opening on nights when "special guests" were expected. My fingers tremble around the handle of my cane, knuckles whitening with each ...