These papers proved that Derek had burned our home to collect the money.

They proved he had stolen my identity while I lay unconscious in the burn unit.

Marisol took two quick turns, navigating the narrow alleys behind the courthouse.

She pulled up to a heavy metal roll-up gate beneath a concrete overhang.

A security guard stepped out of a booth, squinting through the downpour.

He looked at our license plate, checked a clipboard, and hit a button.

The metal gate groaned as it lifted into the ceiling.

Marisol drove us down into the dim, fluorescent-lit belly of the building.

The air down here smelled of damp concrete and car exhaust.

She parked in a spot marked for official use only.

“We are safe here,” Marisol said, turning off the engine.

She looked at me, her brown eyes steady and calm.

“Are you ready for this, Elena?” she asked.

I looked down at my hands.

The pink, tight scar tissue on my palms was cold to the touch.

“I have been ready for a long time,” I said.