He pat my shoulder, a gesture that felt more like a warning than an embrace.

“I’m going to bed,” he said. “Don’t stay up too late.”

He walked out of the kitchen and headed up the stairs.

I stood in the dark kitchen until I heard the bedroom door close upstairs.

My hands were shaking.

I walked back to the entryway and pulled the tote bag out from behind the umbrella stand.

The manila folder was still safely inside.

I took the bag upstairs to my private study, locked it in the bottom drawer of my desk, and kept the key in my pocket.

I did not sleep that night.

***

The next morning, the rain had stopped, leaving the suburban streets grey and slick.

I drove into the city at eight o’clock.

The traffic on the highway was heavy, a slow crawl of red brake lights.

I kept my hands tight on the steering wheel.

By ten minutes to nine, I parked my car in a garage two blocks away from 4th Street.

The air was brisk and smelled of damp asphalt and wet autumn leaves.