But he didn’t pull out a cigarette this time.

Instead, he drew a small, heavy silver key from his pocket and held it up.

The key glinted in the light of the flashlight, casting a sharp reflection across the wet bricks.

It was the key to the safehouse in upstate New York, the place where I was supposed to start my new life.

He held it just out of my reach, his eyes locked onto mine.

“The car is waiting outside, Lena,” Vincent said quietly.

“But before we leave this place, there is a small matter we must settle.”

He turned his gaze back to Paul, who was shivering against the wall.

The guard with the silenced pistol took a step closer to Paul, pressing the cold barrel directly against his temple.

Paul let out a weak whimpering sound, his eyes closing tight as he began to pray under his breath.

Vincent looked back at me, his hand still holding the key.

From his other pocket, he produced a heavy, brass-handled knife, sliding it out of its leather sheath with a soft, metallic hiss.