The air in the concrete stairwell was cool and smelled of damp dust.

We ran down the flights of stairs, our footsteps echoing against the concrete walls.

“Where are the journals, Claire?” Adrian asked as we reached the ground floor exit.

“At my old studio in SoHo,” I said.

“I kept them hidden behind the false wall in the drying room.”

Adrian pushed open the heavy metal exit door.

The cool, wet air of the Manhattan night hit my face.

A thick fog had rolled in from the East River, swallowing the streetlights.

Adrian’s black sedan was parked idling by the curb, his driver already waiting with the door open.

“Get in,” Adrian said.

We scrambled into the leather back seat.

“SoHo, Marcus. Fast,” Adrian told the driver.

The car pulled away from the curb, its tires splashing through shallow puddles.

I leaned back against the seat, trying to calm my racing heart.

My fingers were cold, still clutching my phone.

“If Grant has Juliet, he won’t hesitate to use her,” Adrian said, staring out the window at the blurred city lights.

“He is desperate,” I replied.