Behind them lay a vast, wooded estate bordering a gray ocean.

They had the same dark hair, the same sharp jawline, and the same gray eyes.

I turned the photograph over.

Written in blue ink was a single line of text.

*Alexander and Julian. Maine, 2012.*

The floorboard creaked behind me.

I spun around, pressing my back against the dusty drying rack.

A stray cat darted out from the shadows near the broken window, its claws scratching against the concrete before it vanished into the alley.

My chest rose and fell as I clutched the envelope against my ribs.

I didn’t stay to turn on the lights.

I slipped the keycard, the receipt, and the photograph into my inner coat pocket and left the building through the fire escape.

The N train to Queens was nearly empty, the fluorescent lights overhead flickering as the car rattled over the East River.

I kept my hand pressed against my chest, feeling the hard edges of the keycard through the fabric of my coat.

The address on the receipt led me to a windowless concrete warehouse near the industrial canal in Long Island City.