Marisol quickly pulled out her notepad and scribbled a note in heavy black ink: *Keep him talking. Trace is running.*

I looked through the two-way mirror at Stephanie, who was still staring at the bank fraud document on the metal table.

“Where are you?” I repeated, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Close enough to see the lights in your condo,” he said.

The line went dead with a sharp click.

The dial tone buzzed in the quiet room.

I slowly lowered the phone, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“He’s in Miami,” I whispered.

“He’s near the waterfront.”

Marisol took my arm, her grip firm and reassuring through the thin fabric of my sweater.

“We’ll let the police handle his location,” she said.

“Right now, we need his sister to talk.”

Inside the interrogation room, the heavy door clicked open.

A man in a sharp gray suit walked in, carrying a leather briefcase.

It was Stephanie’s defense attorney, a man named Arthur Geller.

Vance stood up, nodding at the attorney but keeping his eyes on Stephanie.