Seraphina expected tears.

She expected me to run barefoot across the sand while cameras chased me.

She did not know I had recognized the forged routing numbers two weeks before, or that the bartender nearest her little stage was an undercover financial-crimes detective.

She did not know Kelvin had finally, a month ago, given me access to every threatening message she had sent since our wedding.

I looked toward the eastern entrance, where a uniformed officer had quietly locked the gate.

Beyond the palms, a black sedan sat waiting.