I remembered the numbers he used for everything: the year of his first boat.

I spun the dials to eight-four-two.

The latches popped open with a sharp metallic click.

Inside lay stacks of hundred-dollar bills tied with thick rubber bands.

Beneath the money were offshore bank statements from Grand Cayman and Panama.

There were also copies of my medical records from the burn unit, marked with his handwritten notes in the margins.

“This is what we need,” Marisol said, her eyes scanning the papers. “This proves the embezzlement and the intent.”

“But where is he?” I asked, looking around the empty, quiet room. “Where is Stephanie?”

“We’ll find them,” Detective Miller said, taking photos of the suitcase’s contents with a digital camera.

The flash reflected brightly off the leather.

“They can’t run far with an active warrant, and their names are flagged at the airports,” Miller added.

He began packing the evidence into thick plastic bags.

The crinkling of the plastic felt incredibly loud in the empty apartment.

Marisol walked over to the bedroom window, looking down at the street below.