Outside, the man in the yellow slicker remained in the phone booth, his face shadowed by the brim of his cap.

“They are dispatching a local cruiser,” Lydia said, hanging up.

She opened her leather briefcase and pulled out a slim gray laptop.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, the clicking sound sharp against the quiet of the diner.

“We are not waiting until tomorrow morning to deliver this,” she said.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my heart thumping against my ribs.

“I am sending the finalized settlement proposal to Martin Bell right now,” she said.

She turned the screen so I could see the document.

The text was dense, written in cold, precise legal terms.

“Section four,” Lydia said, pointing her finger at the screen. “Julian forfeits his entire forty percent equity stake in Blackwood Partners.”

“Will he actually sign that?” I asked, looking back toward the window. “He built that firm from nothing.”

“He will sign it because the alternative is a federal penitentiary,” Lydia said.

She tapped a folder on her desk containing the scanned copies of the ledger we had taken from the safe.