“We were just discussing the wire transfers, counselor,” Vance said.

The attorney sat down next to Stephanie and whispered in her ear.

Stephanie looked down, her shoulders slumped, her manicured fingers twisting a wet, shredded tissue.

She looked remarkably small under the harsh fluorescent lights of the room.

The attorney looked at the wire transfer document Vance had left on the table.

He leaned over to Stephanie again, his face grim as he studied the signature.

Through the speaker, we heard him speak.

“Is this your signature, Stephanie?” her attorney asked.

She nodded slowly, a single tear cutting through her heavy makeup.

“He told me it was legal,” she sobbed.

“He said Elena was incompetent after the accident.”

“He said she wouldn’t need the money anyway because the state would cover her medical bills.”

My jaw tightened at her words, the familiar anger rising in my throat.

The accident.

That was what they called the night the kitchen caught fire.

The night Derek stood by the door and watched me burn before he finally called for help.

He had used my weeks in the intensive care unit to systematically dismantle my life.