The next morning, Vanessa Reed walked into Franklin & Meyers and asked to speak with my attorney.

I sat in on the meeting. Without her cocktail dresses and stolen pearls, she looked smaller, but the predatory gleam in her eyes was sharper than ever.

A silver USB drive sat on the conference table between us.

“He hit me the night you threw us out,” Vanessa said, her voice flat, stripped of the theatrical panic she’d performed at the house.

“He blamed me for the investors walking. He threw a lamp at my head.”

She slid the drive an inch forward. “I’m not doing this for you. Your lawyer already explained my situation. I signed things for Daniel too. My name’s on some of it. So I’d rather be the witness than the co-defendant.”