Marco opened his car door, stepping out into the downpour.

He didn’t use an umbrella.

He walked quickly, his boots making no sound on the wet pavement.

Inside the warehouse, the air was cold and smelled of damp cardboard.

Vance was searching through a metal filing cabinet, his hands shaking as he rustled through folders.

“Looking for something?” Marco’s voice echoed in the empty space.

Vance jumped, dropping a stack of papers to the floor.

“Who are you?” Vance stammered, backing away until his spine hit the cabinet. “This is private property.”

“I’m a friend of Luke Mercer,” Marco said, stepping into the dim light of a single hanging bulb.

Vance’s face went completely white.

“I don’t know any Mercers,” he whispered.

“That’s a lie,” Marco said, his voice calm but lethal. “You notarized a divorce decree and three financial transfers last Tuesday.”

“I have the stamps,” Vance said, his eyes darting toward the exit. “Everything was legal. The client showed identification.”

“The client was Vivian Mercer,” Marco said, taking another step forward. “And the woman she brought with her was not Elena Ross.”