The street lamps outside my Brooklyn studio cast long, distorted shadows on the wet pavement.

The studio felt colder than usual.

I walked around, touching the dusty frames of my unfinished paintings.

Jonathan sat on the wooden stool near my easel, staring at the floor.

His coat was damp from the run from the car.

“If she doesn’t show,” I said, breaking the silence.

“She will,” Jonathan said. “She has nowhere else to go.”

A car door slammed outside on the street.

We both went completely still.

I walked to the window and pulled the edge of the heavy canvas curtain aside.

A black sedan was idling by the curb, its exhaust rising in white plumes.

A figure in a dark trench coat got out of the back seat.

It was Rebecca.

She had a silk scarf pulled tight over her hair.

She looked around the empty street before hurrying toward our entrance.

Seconds later, the buzzer downstairs rang.

Jonathan walked over to the intercom and pressed the button.

“Rebecca?” he asked.

“Let me in,” her voice came through the static. “Hurry.”

Jonathan clicked the release buzzer.