He does. For the first time in eight months, he actually looks. I watch his face do the thing I waited all this time to see, that slow drop as it lands on him, who I am, where he is, what that means. His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

“I’ve handled your account since October,” I tell him. “Every wire. Every shell company. All of it.”

He grips the counter. “What did you do,” he says. Not a question, really.

“My job,” I said. “And now I’m done with it.”

I picked up my purse with my file inside, and I walked out from behind that counter for the last time, past the manager, out the glass doors into the afternoon. The DA’s office is eleven minutes away and I’m going there now. I haven’t called Diane. I don’t know how I’m going to tell my sister that the man she defended for two years is about to be charged, or that I’m the one who did it. I keep starting the sentence in my head and it won’t come. She may never speak to me again. I got Mama’s money its day in court, but I don’t think I got my sister back. I’m sitting in my car in the parking lot, file on the seat, and I haven’t turned the key yet.