“Something is wrong,” Adrian said, his voice dropping an octave.

“We need to go to Cherry Street,” I said, a cold dread settling in my stomach.

The fog outside was thick, rolling in from the East River and pressing against the dirty studio windows.

We left the building, guiding Sienna down the dark, creaking stairs.

Adrian’s security detail arrived five minutes later in a black SUV.

They took Sienna, leaving us with Adrian’s personal sedan.

Adrian took the driver’s seat, and I sat beside him.

The streets of Manhattan were slick with moisture, reflecting the red and yellow traffic lights.

We drove south, the silence in the car heavy and tense.

“Grant is desperate,” Adrian said, his hands tight on the steering wheel.

“He knows the police are closing in on his art business,” I added.

“If he has my sister’s painting, he will try to move it tonight,” Adrian said.

We turned onto Cherry Street, where the buildings were old, brick, and crowded close together.

The streetlights were dim, casting long, eerie shadows through the fog.

Adrian pulled the car over to the curb, shutting off the headlights.