My car was parked three blocks away, in a garage that didn’t require a keycard.

The elevator hit the ground floor with a heavy, metallic thud.

The outer doors slid back, revealing the dim, concrete lobby of the building.

Standing by the glass entrance doors was a man in a dark trench coat, his collar turned up against the damp air.

He was not a journalist.

He held a black leather folio under his arm, his eyes scanning the lobby until they landed on me.

He took a step forward, his hand reaching inside his coat.

I stopped, my hand tightening around the strap of my bag.

The man did not draw a weapon.

He pulled a black leather wallet from his coat and flipped it open.

A gold shield caught the dim light of the lobby.

“Special Agent Miller, FBI,” he said.

His voice was flat, dry, and entirely devoid of emotion.

“I am looking for Daniel Hayes,” he said.

I stood very still, the strap of my bag digging into my shoulder.

“He is upstairs,” I said.

“In the studio?” Miller asked.