“Let me do the talking,” Marisol said quietly. “Keep your phone recording.”

We got out of the car.

The young woman looked up, her eyes wide and bloodshot.

She opened her car door slowly, her hands trembling.

“Elena?” she asked, her gaze falling on the compression sleeve on my left arm.

“Yes,” I said. “This is my attorney, Marisol.”

Monica swallowed hard and reached into her purse.

She pulled out a small brass key attached to a plastic blue tab.

“This is it,” she said, her voice shaking. “Box 402 at the Biscayne Bank.”

Marisol did not take the key immediately.

“Did Derek tell you what was inside?” Marisol asked.

“Cash,” Monica whispered. “And some documents. He said it was his insurance policy.”

“Insurance for what?” I asked.

“He didn’t say. He just said if he ever went down, he would make sure everyone went down with him.”

Marisol took a small envelope from her pocket and let Monica drop the key inside.

“You did the right thing, Monica,” Marisol said. “I suggest you go home and wait. If detectives call you, you tell them the absolute truth.”