Before I could answer, the phone on his desk began to ring.

The sound was loud and jarring in the quiet room.

Daniel did not move to answer it.

He just stared at me, his face pale, waiting for my response.

The phone kept ringing, the digital screen flashing a number I did not recognize.

I looked at the flashing light, then back down at my husband, who was now nothing more than a desperate man begging for his life.

The phone on the mahogany desk rang a fifth time.

The digital screen glowed blue against the dark wood.

Daniel’s eyes shifted from the phone to my face, his fingers trembling against the glass coffee table.

“Answer it,” I said.

“It’s Clara,” he whispered.

“Then you should talk to her.”

“She’s panicking, Emily. If she talks to the US Attorney, we are both done.”

“You are done,” I corrected him. “I have nothing to do with your shell companies.”

He stood up slowly, his knees cracking in the quiet room.

He reached out toward me, but stopped when I took another step back.