“The back door was forced open,” Vance said. “The place has been ransacked.”

My breath hitched in my throat.

“Did they find anything?” I asked.

“They were looking for these files,” Marisol said, gesturing to the desk.

“They didn’t find them,” Vance said. “But the police caught someone leaving the building.”

“Who?” I asked.

Vance’s phone on the desk buzzed, a text message lighting up the screen.

He picked it up and tapped the glass.

“They have Stephanie’s car blocked in the alley,” Vance said.

He turned the screen toward us.

It was a photo sent by an officer on the scene.

Stephanie was standing under a streetlamp in the pouring rain, her hands cuffed behind her back.

Her expensive blonde hair was plastered to her face, and her makeup was running.

She looked small, wet, and terrified.

“She was trying to get away with a box of your old files,” Vance said.

“She was trying to destroy the evidence,” Marisol said.

“This is our entry point,” Vance said. “She’s arrested for breaking and entering and obstruction of justice.”

He picked up his desk phone again and dialed a number.