The bank office—God, it’s too… too clean. Everything’s glass, polished till it stings your eyes. That fake bright white light buzzing above, AC humming like a damn freezer, cutting through my skin. Still, the briny ocean stink creeps in through some stupid vent, burning my nose. I’m stuck by the desk, can’t move, my chest thudding all jagged like it’s trying to punch out my ribs. Kline’s file—Victor Kline, David’s so-called partner—burning in my brain like a match won’t blow out. Those words echo: The fund’s ours now.

Ellie. She’s safe. Sitter’s got her. But safe feels like a lie, ‘cause my head’s all tangled—Kline? After her money? No, after...