The hazard lights were flashing.

I pulled up behind him and stopped.

Through the glass doors of the lobby, I saw Victor arguing with the concierge.

The young man behind the desk was shaking his head, his hands raised in apology.

I got out of my car and walked into the lobby.

The cool air of the air conditioning hit me like a physical wall.

“I have a key,” Victor was shouting.

“I pay the lease on that unit.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hayes,” the concierge said.

“Ms. Vance requested that we revoke your access keycard.”

Victor stopped.

His shoulders sagged.

“What do you mean, revoke?” he asked.

“She left instructions this morning,” the concierge said, looking nervous.

“She said she was moving out.”

Victor turned around and saw me standing near the fountain in the center of the lobby.

His face was pale, his eyes wide with a frantic, desperate energy.

“Claire,” he said, taking a step toward me.

“She’s not answering her phone.”

“Why would she?” I asked.

“She has the keys to the Nassau account,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

“Everything we moved last month.”