The lobby of the building was quiet, the doorman bowing his head slightly as I walked past.

He did not ask for my keycard; he knew my face too well, even if I was trying to leave this life behind.

I took the private elevator to the top floor.

The doors slid open with a soft chime.

The penthouse was silent, but the scent of expensive perfume and damp wool hung in the air.

I walked down the long, carpeted hallway toward the main living area.

Through the double glass doors of Daniel’s private study, I heard voices.

They were not speaking softly.

“You promised me security, Daniel,” Clara’s voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet of the apartment.

“And you promised me discretion,” Daniel replied, his voice low and vibrating with anger.

I stood just outside the door, my back pressed against the cold marble wall.

“I gave you everything you asked for,” Clara said. “I signed the papers. I routed the funds through my late husband’s estate.”

“Exactly,” Daniel said. “Which means the paper trail stops with you.”

There was a brief silence.