Then I read the first routing number one more time.

It belonged to a bank in Grand Cayman.

Nicole had claimed the corner booth before the diner lights were all the way up, and she’d already shoved the salt and pepper shakers against the wall to clear space.

“Sit down,” she said.

“I found your money.

You’re not going to like the neighborhood it moved into.”

I put my briefcase on the seat and slid in across from her.

She spun the top statement around and pushed it at me with two fingers, the way you hand somebody a bill.