“If anything goes wrong,” Adrian said, “Miller has the papers to get you out of Illinois tonight.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I said.

“I have to,” he said. “I built this cage, Claire. I have to be the one to open the door.”

He reached out and placed his hand over mine.

Through his leather glove, I could feel the hard ridge of his wedding ring.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I didn’t answer.

There were too many years of broken promises between us for a simple apology to work.

But as I looked at his face, I realized I still didn’t want him to die.

Miller started the engine, the wipers scraping against the thick ice on the windshield.

We drove through the deserted streets of the industrial district.

The snow was falling faster now, turning the streetlights into blurry halos of orange light.

The warehouses we passed were dark, their corrugated steel doors locked tight against the storm.

We pulled into an alleyway half a block from the 47th Street warehouse.

It was an old meatpacking plant, its brick chimney rising like a black finger into the winter sky.