The stairwell was cool and smelled of concrete and fresh paint.

I ran down three flights, my heels clicking loudly against the metal steps until I reached the basement level.

My hands were shaking as I pushed open the heavy exit door leading to the side alley of the Plaza.

The cold autumn air hit my face, shocking me back to reality.

I needed answers, and there was only one person who could give me the first piece of the puzzle.

My father was staying at a modest hotel only three blocks away, a place I had paid for myself.

I walked quickly, wrapping my arms around my chest to shield myself from the wind.

The lobby of his hotel was small, smelling of stale coffee and carpet cleaner.

I didn’t call ahead; I simply took the elevator to the fourth floor and knocked on room 412.

When the door opened, my father looked older than his sixty years, his cardigan gray and frayed at the cuffs.

“Claire,” he said, his eyes widening in surprise.

“What are you doing here?”