It showed a file transfer confirmation.

The destination address was an email registered to the Yamato Group.

“He sent the digital files,” Julian said, standing behind me.

“But the notebooks,” I said. “Where are they?”

A sudden noise came from the adjoining terrace.

The glass door was unlocked, sliding open an inch.

A gust of wind blew the sheer curtains into the room.

I walked toward the terrace, my heels clicking on the hardwood.

Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets.

I stepped onto the wet stone balcony.

A figure was standing near the edge of the roof.

It was not Bennett.

It was Marta, her hands tied behind her back with a plastic zip tie.

She was gagged with a silk scarf, her eyes wide with terror.

Beside her stood Bennett, his coat dripping wet, holding the original leather-bound recipe notebooks over the edge of the fifteen-story drop.

He looked at me, a wild, desperate grin on his face.

“One step closer, Evelyn,” he shouted over the wind. “And they go over the edge.”

Rain stung my face, cold and sharp.