Then, behind me, the brass handle of the hotel room door began to turn, slowly clicking into place.

The brass handle clicked, and the door swung open.

I slid my phone into my pocket, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Naomi Pierce stepped into the room, shaking her wet umbrella.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, shutting the door behind her.

“Sienna just called me,” I said.

Naomi stopped, her hand freezing on the umbrella handle.

“The mistress?” she asked.

“She’s terrified,” I said, walking over to the small table. “Conrad’s men threatened her. She wants immunity in exchange for Conrad’s offshore account records.”

Naomi set her briefcase on the desk and unbuttoned her damp wool coat.

“Offshore accounts?” she repeated, her eyes narrowing. “Are we talking about the Caymans?”

“Yes,” I said. “She says she has the digital files. She wants us to guarantee her safety.”

Naomi sat down on the edge of the bed, her sharp face tight with calculation.

“We can’t grant official legal immunity ourselves, Amelia,” she said. “Only a prosecutor can do that.”