The doors slid open onto a private reception area.

The walls were paneled in dark walnut, and the air smelled of beeswax and expensive leather.

Blake was standing by a floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the rainy expanse of the Chicago River.

He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

His dark hair was shorter than it used to be, touched with gray at the temples.

When he turned around, I saw the deep lines around his eyes.

“Emma,” he said.

He didn’t move toward me, as if afraid I would run.

“Blake,” I said.

I closed the door behind me, the latch clicking softly.

“You look the same,” he said.

“I don’t feel the same,” I said.

I walked to the large glass desk in the center of the room.

I took the physical folder from my bag and laid it on the polished wood.

Then I took the silver drive and the three flash drives from my pocket and placed them on top.

He looked down at the items, his brow furrowing.

“What is this?” he asked.