I hailed a yellow cab at the corner, the tires splashing puddle water onto the curb.

We scrambled into the back seat, the warmth of the heater doing little to stop my shivering.

“Where to, lady?” the driver asked, looking at us in the rearview mirror.

I gave him Arthur Vance’s residential address in Brooklyn.

As the cab pulled into the heavy traffic of Fifth Avenue, I looked out the back window.

Two police cruisers with flashing blue lights were parked outside the side entrance of the Plaza.

Preston was standing on the steps, talking to an officer in a yellow slicker.

He looked calm, composed, and entirely in control.

Beside him, holding a large black umbrella, was Samantha.

She was watching the street, her eyes scanning the passing cars.

For a brief second, I thought she looked right at us.

I pulled Mia close, shielding her from view as the cab accelerated.

The drive to Brooklyn was silent, save for the rhythmic clicking of the windshield wipers.

I stared at the downloaded files on my phone, trying to make sense of the rows of numbers.