The bright Miami sun hit her sharp face, showing the tension in her jaw.

Her phone suddenly buzzed in her blazer pocket.

She pulled it out and answered it immediately.

“Yes, this is Marisol,” she said.

She walked a few steps away, her brow furrowing deeply as she listened.

I watched her face, a cold dread settling in my stomach.

The heat in the condo suddenly felt suffocating.

“What do you mean, frozen?” Marisol asked the caller, her tone dropping.

She listened for another thirty seconds, her hand tightening around the phone.

“Under what authority?” she demanded.

She closed her eyes, taking a slow breath.

“Send me the document immediately,” she said and hung up.

She turned to me, her expression pale and rigid.

“What is it?” I asked, my chest tightening.

“That was my contact at your primary bank,” Marisol said, her voice quiet.

She tapped her phone screen, waiting for an email to load.

“Derek didn’t just run,” she said.

“What did he do, Marisol?”

She held up the phone, showing me an attached PDF.

It was a Power of Attorney form.