The historic wood-paneled office of Whitaker House felt too large, the shadows in the corners stretching toward the desk.

I gripped my phone, wondering if I should call the police or search the wet streets myself.

Before I could decide, a soft, scraping sound came from the stairwell downstairs.

I froze, holding my breath to listen.

The old floorboards of the main lobby groaned, followed by the sound of a heavy door sliding shut.

I slipped the flash drive into my pocket, my fingers wrapping around the cold metal.

Slowly, I stepped out of the office and into the dark hallway, guided only by the green glow of the exit sign.

“Dina?” I called out, my voice thin.

There was no answer, only the sound of water dripping onto the hardwood floor below.

I crept to the top of the stairs and looked down into the dark lobby.

A figure stood by the reception desk, shivering in a soaked, beige trench coat.

It was Vanessa.

Her blonde hair hung in wet, tangled clumps around her face, and her mascara was smeared black under her eyes.