I struck the wheel of the lighter.

A small, yellow flame flickered into life.

The smell of lighter fluid and flint filled the narrow space between us.

“Lena, think about what you are doing,” Arthur said, his tone softening into that fake, gentle warmth he used when he wanted a client to sign a bad contract.

“This is forty million dollars,” he said.

“This is your freedom.”

“No,” I said. “This is your debt.”

I held the flame to the edge of the crumpled paper.

The dry cotton paper caught instantly.

A bright orange line crept up the edge of the sheet, turning the white paper into black, curling ash.

Arthur lunged forward.

I stepped to the side, holding the burning pages out over the metal wastebasket near the desk.

“You crazy girl!” Arthur yelled.

He tried to grab my wrist, but the heat of the flame made him flinch back.

The fire consumed the Swiss routing code first.

The black numbers *CH93* vanished into the heat.

“It’s gone,” I said.

The smoke rose toward the ceiling, thin and gray.