As I reached the curb, the rear passenger window of the sedan rolled down an inch.

A hand reached out of the dark gap.

It held a small, yellowed paper envelope.

“Take it,” a voice from inside the car whispered.

I hesitated, looking at the dark tinted glass.

Then I reached out and took the envelope.

The paper felt thick and slightly damp from the rain.

Before I could say anything, the window rolled up and the sedan pulled away from the curb.

Its tires splashed dirty water onto my coat as it merged into the midnight traffic.

I stood under the streetlamp, my fingers trembling slightly as I tore open the top of the envelope.

Inside was a single brass key and a folded piece of lined paper.

I unfolded the paper under the yellow light of the lamp.

Written in shaky, hurried handwriting were three words.

My breath caught in my throat as I read them.

They changed everything I thought I knew about the last three years of my life.

I turned back toward the glass doors of Harlan Media, where Marcus was watching me from the lobby.