“Couriers have schedules,” Diane said. “They don’t always deliver immediately at midnight. Sometimes they hold items in their local depot until morning.”

We hurried out of the office and back into the cold rain.

The streetlights reflected off the wet asphalt as Diane drove toward the highway.

The windshield wipers clicked back and forth, a steady, rhythmic beat.

My phone buzzed in my lap.

I looked down.

It was a picture message from an unknown number.

I tapped the screen.

The image showed a metal trash bin behind a dark building.

A thin wisp of smoke was rising from the top.

Beside the bin lay a crumpled manila folder with the name *Whitmore* written in faded black ink.

My hand began to shake as another message appeared underneath.

*You’re too late, Vivian.*

I stared at the glowing words, the rain lashing against the car window.

“Diane,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“What is it?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the slick road.

I held the phone toward her, the screen illuminating her face.

She glanced at it, her jaw tightening.