We locked the empty box back in the wall and left the bank.

The bright Miami sun hit us like a wall of heat as we walked out of the lobby.

We got back into Marisol’s car, the leather seats hot against my skin.

As Marisol started the engine, my phone buzzed in my purse.

I pulled it out, expecting a text from Stephanie or another threatening message from an unknown number.

Instead, it was an email from an address made of random letters and numbers.

The subject line read: *Derek’s past.*

My fingers hovered over the screen.

“What is it?” Marisol asked, backing the car out of the parking space.

“An email,” I said. “From an anonymous sender.”

I tapped the screen to open it.

The message was short.

*I know what he did to Sarah,* it read. *And I know what he did to the warehouse in Tampa.*

My throat went dry.

“Marisol,” I said, reading the words aloud. “Who is Sarah?”

Marisol stopped the car near the exit of the garage.

“I don’t know,” Marisol said. “But we need to find out.”