I picked up the phone again and dialed Lydia Monroe’s emergency number.

She answered on the second ring, her voice crisp and alert despite the hour.

“Elena,” Lydia said. “What’s happened?”

“I just got a text,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“From Julian?”

“No,” I said. “An unknown number. It’s a photo of a key on a concrete floor. The message says he didn’t sign everything.”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line.

I could hear the rustle of papers, the sound of Lydia sitting up in her chair.

“Describe the key,” she said.

“It’s old,” I said. “Rusted. It looks like it belongs to a safety deposit box, or maybe an old locker.”

“Julian has a private storage unit in Norwalk,” Lydia said slowly. “We uncovered the lease during the financial discovery, but his lawyers claimed it was cleared out years ago.”

“They lied,” I said.

“They might have,” Lydia agreed. “Or Julian lied to his own counsel. Martin Bell is a lot of things, but he doesn’t usually risk his license for a client’s cheap tricks.”