“Paul is weak,” Vincent said, sitting on the wooden armchair opposite me.

“But weak men do dangerous things when they are cornered.”

“He has my documents,” I said, a sudden realization hitting me.

“What documents?” Vincent asked, his posture stiffening.

“My birth certificate, my old passport,” I said. “They were in the metal box under the bed.”

Vincent’s eyes narrowed.

“Did you leave the key?”

“No, but the lock is cheap,” I said. “He could break it with a screwdriver.”

Vincent stared at the floor, his mind working through the implications.

If Paul had her documents, he had her identity, her history, and potentially a way to track her or sell her information to Corrado.

The minutes ticked by slowly.

The radiator clinked in the corner, sending up a hiss of steam.

My eyes kept drifting to the black screen of Vincent’s phone on the table.

It felt like hours, though it had only been fifteen minutes.

The storm outside seemed to grow louder, wind rattling the glass.

Suddenly, the phone on the table vibrated, the screen lighting up.

It showed a local number.