He unlocked the heavy deadbolt, the metal mechanism releasing with a loud, distinct clank.

He pulled the door open, letting in a draft of freezing Brooklyn air that smelled of wet asphalt and old snow.

Benjamin stood in the hallway, his wool overcoat dusted with white flakes and his leather briefcase clutched tightly under his arm.

His face was pale, his nose and cheeks reddened by the biting winter wind.

“I had to walk three blocks from the subway,” Benjamin said, stepping inside and quickly closing the door behind him.

“Did anyone follow you?” Jonathan asked, locking the door again.

“No,” Benjamin said, breathing heavily as he unbuttoned his coat. “I doubled back twice near the bridge.”

He looked at me, nodding his head in a silent greeting.

“I am sorry to disturb you so late, Mariana,” he said.

“It is fine,” I said, pointing toward the small kitchen alcove. “I can make some tea.”

“No time,” Benjamin said, setting his briefcase down on the wooden worktable.

He cleared a space, pushing aside a row of my paintbrushes and a jar of linseed oil.