Monica nodded quickly, started her car, and sped away into the Miami traffic.

We got back into Marisol’s sedan.

“We need to get to that bank,” I said, staring at the envelope in her hand.

“The bank won’t let us open it without a court order or Derek’s signature,” Marisol said. “But we have the key, which means he can’t send anyone else to get it.”

Her phone suddenly chimed with an incoming email notification.

She tapped the screen, her brow furrowing as she read.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s from Arthur Vance,” Marisol said, her voice turning cold.

“Derek’s lawyer?”

“Yes,” Marisol said, pulling out of the parking spot. “He’s already moving.”

“What does he want?”

“He’s proposing a meeting,” Marisol said. “He wants to discuss a settlement before this goes any further.”

“A settlement for what? Derek stole hundreds of thousands of dollars from my account.”

“Vance is offering fifty thousand dollars,” Marisol said, her voice flat. “And a quick, quiet divorce.”

“Fifty thousand?” I laughed, a bitter, dry sound. “That doesn’t even cover my skin graft surgeries.”