I stood there for a moment, looking at the man I had spent twenty years of my life with.

He looked small.

He looked old.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his personal phone, the screen blank.

He tapped it repeatedly, but nothing happened.

The battery was dead.

He looked at me, a desperate, silent plea in his eyes.

“Claire,” he said.

“Please.”

“Just let me use your phone.”

I didn’t answer him.

I turned my back on him and walked toward the wet street.

The doorman held an umbrella over my head as I stepped out into the rain.

A yellow cab was waiting at the curb.

I got in, the leather seat cold against my legs.

“Where to, ma’am?” the driver asked.

“The lawyer’s office on Brickell,” I said.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, I looked back through the rain-streaked window.

Victor was standing inside the glass doors of the lobby, a dark shadow against the bright marble.

He was holding the dead burner phone up to his ear, talking to no one at all.