At 3 a.m., my husband stormed into the bedroom and yelled, “Get up, useless woman!” while his mother stood in the doorway laughing.

The visiting room at the county jail was cold, smelling of industrial disinfectant and old floor wax.

I sat behind the scratched plexiglass partition, waiting. The metal chair was uncomfortable, but I didn't shift. I kept my back straight, my hands clasped on the counter in front of me.

The heavy steel door at the back of the room opened, and Derek was led in by an armed guard.

He looked terrible. The navy bespoke suit was gone, replaced by an oversized orange jumpsuit that made him look small and pathetic. His hair was greasy, his face pale and covered in a rough stubble. The arrogant sneer he had worn on stage at the Plaza Hotel was entirely gone.

He sat down, his handcuffs clinking against the metal table, and picked up the black telephone receiver.

I picked up mine.

"You look like you're sleeping as well as I did when you were throwing me onto the floor," I said, my voice deadpan.

Derek’s grip on the receiver tightened until his knuckles turned white. "What do you want, Clara? Have you come to gloat? You ruined everything. The company is bankrupt. My life is over."

"Your life is just starting to get interesting, Derek," I said. "You're facing twelve years for the financial fraud, and another five for domestic assault. If the prosecutors decide to look into the stairwell collapse at the Blue Sky apartments as a criminal negligence case, you could be looking at twenty."

"I was just the president," Derek spat, his voice hushed but furious. "I didn't design the buildings. I didn't inspect them."

"No, but you paid the bribes to make sure they passed inspection," I said. I pulled a photograph from my pocket and pressed it against the glass.

It was a picture of the deed of trust for the Manhattan penthouse.

Derek’s eyes widened, his pupils contracting with sudden, stark terror.

"You found it," he whispered.

"I found everything, Derek," I said. "I know about Elysian Properties. I know about Councilman Vance. And I know about Arthur Pendelton."

Derek laughed, but it was a dry, choking sound. "Then you know I’m a dead man. If I talk about Arthur, I won't survive a week in here."

"And if you don't talk, you'll spend the next twenty years in a maximum-security facility while Arthur and your mother enjoy the sun in Dubai," I said.

Derek froze. "What are you talking about? My mother is working on my bail. She’s setting up a defense team."

I pulled out a second photograph. It was a surveillance shot Shaw’s team had taken that morning. It showed Marlene sitting on a sunny terrace at the upstate clinic, sipping tea, looking relaxed and completely untouched by the scandal.

"She’s not working on your bail, Derek," I said. "She checked into a private clinic upstate under the name 'Marilyn Stone.' Her bills are being paid by Arthur’s company. She’s safe. You're the fall guy. They’re going to let you take the entire wrap, and once you're locked away, they'll transfer the remaining eight million dollars to Dubai and disappear."

Derek stared at the photograph of his mother. His breathing became shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly. I could see the exact moment the realization hit him—the absolute, crushing betrayal by the two people he had spent his life trying to please.

"She... she promised me," he muttered, his voice cracking. "She said if I signed the Halcyon paperwork, we would both be safe."

"She lied, Derek," I said, keeping my voice soft, almost sympathetic. "They both lied to you. You were never their partner. You were their shield."

He dropped his head, his forehead resting against the cold glass of the partition. I could hear his muffled, ragged breathing through the telephone receiver.

"What do you want?" he whispered.

"I want the encryption keys to the Apex Municipal Trust account," I said. "I know you kept a digital backup of the transfer logs. Where are they?"

Derek didn't look up for a long time. When he finally raised his head, his eyes were wet, filled with a mixture of defeat and bitter rage.

"It's not an encryption key," he said. "It’s a physical key. In my office at the construction company, there’s a model of the high-rise we were planning to build in the lobby. The key is inside the foundation of the model. It’s a USB drive disguised as a microchip in the building’s power grid."

"And what’s on it?"

"Everything," Derek said, his voice trembling. "Every wire transfer, every recorded call with Councilman Vance, and the signed agreement where Arthur Pendelton authorized the payments from the corporate accounts."

He paused, looking at me with a desperate, pathetic pleading.

"If I give you this... will you talk to the prosecutor? Will you get them to reduce my sentence?"

I looked at him—the man who had held me down, who had made me feel like nothing, who had stolen my father’s life and legacy.