His dark eyes were unreadable in the dim cabin light.

“We are not going back there,” he said.

“I know,” I whispered, turning my face to the cold window.

We crossed the bridge, the lights of the city reflecting on the dark river below.

Twenty minutes later, the car slowed down in a quiet residential neighborhood.

The streets were lined with old brick brownstones and bare trees.

We pulled up to a three-story building with heavily barred windows.

Two men in heavy coats stood on the stoop, their hands buried in their pockets.

An iron gate opened with a low groan as the driver pressed a remote.

We parked in a small, enclosed courtyard behind the building.

“Step out quickly,” Vincent said.

The cold rain hit my face, shocking my senses as I stepped out.

We walked up a flight of concrete stairs into the back of the building.

Inside, the air was warm and smelled of old wood and fresh paint.

It was clean, but completely bare.

There were no pictures on the walls, and no rugs on the floor.