His eyes lingered on the high collar of my blouse, which covered the scars on my collarbone.

I felt a familiar tightness in my chest, the phantom heat of the fire that had nearly killed me.

“Let’s hear what he has to say, Marisol,” I whispered.

Marisol looked at me, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Five minutes,” Marisol told Vance. “And then we are going to the vault.”

Vance led us into a small office with a mahogany desk and three leather chairs.

The room smelled of furniture polish and stale carpet cleaner.

We sat down, and Vance closed the glass door, shutting out the quiet hum of the bank lobby.

He sat behind the desk as if it belonged to him.

“My client wants to resolve this quickly and quietly,” Vance began, placing his hands flat on the desk.

“Then he should return the money he stole from the business accounts,” Marisol said.

“Let’s not use inflammatory language,” Vance said, waving a hand dismissively. “There are always two sides to financial disputes in a marriage.”