We stepped into the elevator, the descent quiet and fast.

In the back of the town car, the rain drummed a heavy, relentless rhythm against the glass as we drove toward Park Avenue.

Priya kept her eyes glued to the security feed.

“He is in the study now,” she reported, her face illuminated by the blue glare of her screen. “He is trying to open the wall safe behind the portrait.”

“He does not know the combination has been changed,” I said.

“Marta changed it yesterday morning, just as you asked,” Julian noted, checking his watch. “The police are already en route to meet us at the lobby.”

The town car pulled up to the canopy of the Park Avenue building, the tires splashing through deep puddles.

The doorman, a man named Arthur who had worked there for fifteen years, held a large black umbrella over my head as I stepped out.

“Good evening, Mrs. Whitlock,” Arthur said, his eyes scanning my face with quiet concern. “Mr. Whitlock arrived a few minutes ago with Ms. Monroe. They seemed… hurried.”