Julian stepped around the kitchen island, his hand sliding into his suit jacket where his phone was kept.

The brass knob clicked again, turning fully to the right.

The heavy service door creaked open an inch.

Celeste Monroe stood in the dim light of the service hallway, her designer trench coat damp from the autumn drizzle.

Her mascara was smudged beneath her eyes, and her lip gloss was unevenly applied.

She looked small, stripped of the glossy perfection she usually wore like armor in the social columns.

“Evelyn,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she looked past me to Julian.

“Come inside,” I said, stepping back into the kitchen.

She slipped through the crack, and Marta immediately shut the door behind her, throwing the heavy deadbolt.

Celeste stood on the checkered tile floor, her chest rising and falling rapidly under her coat.

She was clutching a large, padded envelope to her chest as if it were a shield.

“The police were at my apartment building,” she said, her voice shaking.

“They were asking for me at the front desk.”