A tall man in a dark leather jacket stood in the threshold.

In his hand, he held a heavy steel crowbar.

His face was partially covered by a black wool cap.

“Who sent you?” Jonathan demanded, his voice low and steady.

The man didn’t answer, stepping forward into the smell of turpentine and oil paint.

“Harrison is gone,” Jonathan said, taking a step toward him. “If Rebecca paid you, she has nothing left to give.”

The intruder hesitated, his eyes shifting from Jonathan to the iron clamp in his hand.

“The police are already on their way,” I said, holding up my vibrating phone.

It was a lie, but my voice remained steady.

The man glanced back toward the dark alley behind the studio.

Sirens began to wail in the distance, growing louder from the direction of Flatbush Avenue.

With a sudden curse, the man turned and ran back into the shadows of the alley.

Jonathan dropped the clamp, the heavy metal clattering against the concrete floor.

He ran to the door, slammed it shut, and threw the heavy deadbolt.