“The email is sent to Martin Bell,” she said.

She picked up her phone and dialed Bell’s direct line.

She placed the phone on the table between us and switched it to speaker.

It rang three times before a tired, gravelly voice answered.

“Lydia,” Martin Bell said. “It is nearly nine o’clock on a rainy evening. What is so urgent?”

“Check your email, Martin,” Lydia said, her voice steady and clinical. “I just sent you our formal settlement demand.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

I heard the faint sound of computer keys tapping in the background of Bell’s office.

“You’re asking for his entire equity stake in Blackwood Partners,” Bell said, his tone shifting from tired to incredulous. “This is absurd, Lydia. Julian will never agree to strip himself of his livelihood.”

“He will if he wants to remain a free man,” Lydia replied.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Bell asked.

“Open the second attachment,” Lydia said.

The silence that followed was heavy.

I watched the rain beat against the diner window, the blue lights of the police cruiser still spinning outside.