The city was a blur of gray concrete and red brake lights through the wet window.

When I arrived at the café, the air inside was warm and smelled of burnt espresso and damp wool.

Brooke was sitting in a corner booth, wearing a dark rain jacket with the hood pulled low.

She looked much younger without her usual makeup, and her eyes were red and swollen.

I sat down opposite her without taking off my wet coat.

She did not look at me at first; she stared down at her hands, which were wrapped around a mug of tea.

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

I did not answer.

She reached into her large canvas bag and slid a heavy black zipper pouch across the sticky wooden table.

“He brought this over the night before his arrest,” she said.

“He told me if anything happened to him, I was to use the offshore accounts to set myself up.”

“But I looked inside.”

“There are transaction ledgers in there, Claire.”

“They have your signature on them, but they are not your handwriting.”