The rear window of the limousine rolled down halfway, revealing a sliver of dark glass.

Jonathan stopped in his tracks, his entire body going rigid.

He looked down at the dark window, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

Through the gap in the glass, I could see the outline of an older man’s profile, his silver hair catching the streetlights.

It was Harrison Vance.

I slid the heavy wooden sash of the window upward, the old counterweights groaning inside the frame.

The freezing winter air rushed into the warm studio, smelling of wet asphalt and car exhaust.

I leaned my forehead against the cold glass pane of the upper sash, staring down into the street.

Below me, Jonathan stood motionless on the pavement, his boots inches from the curb.

The black limousine sat idling, its exhaust pipe sending plumes of white vapor into the dark air.

“Get in, Jonathan,” a voice called out from the back seat of the car.

It was Harrison’s voice, muffled by the distance but carrying that familiar, aristocratic rasp.