“He is on his way here anyway,” I added. “He can watch the monitor while they sleep.”

Jonathan looked at me, his eyes searching my face for any sign of hesitation.

He saw none.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

Ten minutes later, Benjamin arrived at the door, his trench coat damp from the light mist falling outside.

He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes deeper than they had been this afternoon.

“I have the security protocols set for the building,” Benjamin said, stepping into the warm, turpentine-scented air of the studio.

“Keep the door locked,” I told him, wrapping my scarf tightly around my neck.

“No one gets in,” Benjamin promised, his hand resting briefly on my shoulder. “Go. Be careful.”

The air outside was cold, smelling of wet asphalt, exhaust, and river salt.

Jonathan’s black sedan was idling at the curb, its exhaust plume rising white in the yellow streetlights.

We got in, and the driver immediately pulled out into the Brooklyn traffic.

I stared out the window at the blurred lights of the bridge.

“What exactly is in that folder, Jonathan?” I asked, my fingers gripping my purse.