“Grant had inside help,” I said.

“I always suspected it, but I could never prove who was feeding him the security codes.”

The silence in the car was heavy, broken only by the steady sweep of the windshield wipers.

We passed the grand cast-iron buildings of SoHo, their windows dark and empty.

The driver slowed the sedan down as we turned onto a narrow cobblestone street.

My old studio was on the third floor of a former textile warehouse.

The brick facade looked dark and imposing in the fog.

“Stay here, Marcus,” Adrian told the driver as the car came to a halt.

We got out of the car.

The damp air clung to my silk dress, making me shiver.

Adrian took my arm, guiding me toward the heavy wooden double doors of the building.

I reached into my clutch and pulled out my brass key ring.

The keys jingled softly in the quiet night.

I inserted the key into the main building lock and turned it.

The heavy door creaked open, revealing a dark lobby smelling of floor wax and old radiator heat.