“Yes,” I said.

We left the apartment, the door clicking shut behind us on the ruined living room.

The elevator ride down to the garage was silent.

The city outside was shrouded in a thick, gray fog that rolled off Lake Michigan.

The neon signs of the downtown clubs blurred into smears of pink and blue through the wet windshield.

Dante drove fast, his hands steady on the steering wheel.

I watched the dark water of the river as we crossed the bridge.

The shipping district was dead at this hour, a graveyard of rusted cranes and empty warehouses.

We turned onto a gravel road that led toward the water.

In the distance, the skeletal silhouette of Pier Four rose out of the mist.

A single spotlight shone from the end of the pier, cutting a yellow path through the fog.

Dante slowed the car to a crawl, turning off the headlights.

“This is it,” he whispered.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, the screen lighting up with an unknown number.

I pressed the green button on the screen and held the phone to my ear.