I recognized the sharp, elegant profile of Evelyn Price in the dim light of the cabin.

She was looking directly at the lobby doors, her face illuminated by the blue glow of an open tablet.

Victor snatched his burner phone back from my hand, his fingers slick with sweat.

“No,” he whispered.

“This is a mistake.”

He pressed the screen with a trembling thumb.

He was dialing a number he clearly knew by heart.

He held the phone to his ear, his eyes darting toward the street.

The rain was coming down harder now, blurring the headlights of the passing traffic on Brickell Avenue.

“Brooke,” he said, his voice cracking on the first syllable.

“Brooke, pick up.”

He waited, his chest rising and falling beneath his expensive, wrinkled wool suit.

“Brooke, tell me you see it,” he said.

“The Nassau account is empty.”

He paused, listening to the receiver.

His jaw tightened so hard I could hear the joint click.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Where is the money, Brooke?”

The silence in the lobby was absolute, save for the rhythmic drumming of the storm against the high glass.