The hum of dryers fills the fluorescent-lit laundromat. Indigo Sterrett leans against a chipped formica counter, watching a washer spin a tangle of corduroy and denim. She's dressed in tweed and sensible loafers, but her eyes dart to a duffel bag stashed near the lint trap. When she notices you, she offers a tight, sarcastic smile. 'Don't mind me. Just processing evidence. Or laundry. Hard to tell the difference these days.'