A black sedan tore down the ramp, its headlights blinding us.

It skidded to a halt just twenty yards away, blocking our path to the exit.

The driver’s side door flew open.

The tension in the air was so thick it felt hard to breathe.

I took a step back, my hand gripping the cold metal of my car key.

The figure that stepped out of the sedan wasn’t a police officer.

And it wasn’t Harrison.

It was someone I hadn’t seen in five years.

Someone who was supposed to be dead.

The stranger took a step toward us, the headlights behind him casting his face in deep shadow, but I recognized the limp instantly.

“Claire,” a voice called out from the dark.

“We need to go before they realize what was in the safe.”

My phone buzzed again, a final, vibrating pulse in my hand.

The screen flashed once, then went completely black.

I stood frozen in the headlights, the envelope heavy in my hand, as the shadow stepped closer.

“Arthur,” I whispered.

The man stopped just outside the brightest beam of the headlights.