He didn’t deny it.

I turned away from him and walked out of the suite.

The marble hallway was cold.

I could hear the distant roar of Miami traffic twelve floors below.

I followed the corridor around to the bank of elevators.

Victor was standing there, pressing the down button repeatedly.

His thumb was white from the pressure.

“Victor,” I said.

He didn’t turn around.

“The house in Key Biscayne,” I said.

“Is that under Brooke’s name too?”

He let out a short, harsh laugh.

“No,” he said, still looking at the elevator doors.

“That’s ours, Claire. For what it’s worth.”

“It’s worth nothing,” I said.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open.

He stepped inside.

I didn’t follow him.

I watched the brass indicator numbers count down to the lobby.

My phone vibrated in my purse.

I pulled it out, expecting a call from my lawyer.

Instead, it was an alert from the bank.

A joint secondary account we used for household expenses had just been locked due to suspicious activity.

I walked to the floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hall.