She clutched a large leather tote bag against her chest like a shield.

“Emma,” she gasped, looking up and catching her breath.

“You’re hurt,” I said, hurrying down the creaking wooden stairs toward her.

A dark bruise was already forming on her left cheek, and her hands were trembling violently.

“I’m fine,” she said, her teeth chattering as she looked over her shoulder at the locked glass doors. “I hit a guardrail three blocks away. I ran the rest of the way.”

“Come upstairs,” I said, taking her damp arm and leading her toward my father’s old office.

The warmth of the small desk lamp did little to stop her shivering as she sank into the leather armchair.

I handed her a clean towel from the washroom, which she used to press against her wet face.

“They are going to destroy me, Emma,” she whispered, her voice cracking with a raw, desperate panic.

“Tell me what happened,” I said, standing near the desk.

She unzipped the wet leather bag and pulled out a thick, dry manila envelope.