I held the phone tight against my ear, listening to the sound of Brooke’s shallow breathing.

“What did he leave, Brooke?” I asked.

My voice was flat, devoid of the anger I had carried for so many months.

There was a long pause on the other end, filled with the distant sound of city traffic and squeaking windshield wipers.

“It is a black leather pouch,” Brooke said, her voice shaking.

“He told me to keep it safe just before the federal marshals took him.”

“He said it was his insurance policy.”

“But the investigators have been calling my apartment, Claire.”

“I cannot go to jail for him,” she whispered. “I will not do it.”

“Where are you right now?” I asked.

“I am at the café on Fourth Avenue,” she said. “The one with the green sign.”

“Stay there,” I said. “Do not touch anything else.”

I hung up and stepped out into the rain.

The cold water soaked through my coat almost instantly, but I barely felt the chill.

I hailed a taxi at the corner and gave the driver the address.