Naomi’s car was idling at the curb, headlights cutting through the dark mist.

We threw ourselves into the backseat as Naomi slammed her foot on the gas.

The tires screeched, leaving the two men standing under the flickering yellow light of the terminal entrance.

Sienna was sobbing in the seat next to me, her head in her hands.

“They know,” she whispered. “Conrad knows I have the files.”

“You’re safe now,” I said, though my own heart was hammering against my ribs.

Naomi looked at me through the rearview mirror.

“We need to get to my office,” she said. “Now.”

We arrived at Naomi’s office downtown forty minutes later.

The rain was coming down in sheets, blurring the city lights.

Naomi led us through the back entrance, past the empty reception desk.

The office was dark, smelling of old paper and stale coffee.

We walked into her private conference room, and Naomi locked the door behind us.

“Sienna, sit down,” Naomi ordered gently, pointing to a leather chair.

Sienna sank into the seat, her wet hair clinging to her cheeks.