I looked out the glass facade of the building.

The Miami rain was coming down in gray sheets, blurring the palm trees along the avenue.

“I am going to the apartment on eighth street,” I said.

“That is a mistake,” Evelyn said. “Let the police handle him.”

“He needs to sign the waiver of representation,” I said. “Otherwise, the company assets will remain tied up in his personal bankruptcy defense for the next five years.”

I walked past her, out through the revolving doors, and into the warm, heavy rain.

***

The drive took twenty minutes through the flooded streets of the lower district.

The apartment building was a three-story stucco block with peeling paint and rust stains dripping from the balconies.

It was a far cry from the penthouse we owned in Seattle or the waterfront estate in Coral Gables.

I parked my sedan near the curb, keeping the engine running for a moment.

The windshield wipers beat a steady, monotonous rhythm against the glass.

I took the blue binder from my passenger seat and tucked it under my arm.