“Leave.”
Mom’s jaw tightened.
“If Chloe goes to federal prison, that will be your fault.”
The elevator doors opened.
I looked directly at her.
“No.”
I pointed toward the doors.
“If Chloe goes to prison, it will be because of whatever Chloe did.”
They left.
That night, I hired a private investigator.
Three days later, he placed a dossier on my desk.
“What did you find?”
His expression told me it was bad.
“Your sister doesn’t need a million dollars because of some failed investment.”
I leaned back.
“Then why?”
He paused.
“She needs it because a twenty-four-year-old woman may never walk again.”
I stopped breathing.
The woman’s name was Daniela Ruiz.
She was twenty-four.
A junior accountant.
One month earlier, she had been driving home from work along the West Side Highway on a rainy night.
A luxury SUV ran a red light at high speed.
