I drove toward the highway, my hands tight on the wheel.
The Miami skyline loomed in the distance, grey against the afternoon clouds.
“Do not go near the lobby, Hannah,” I said.
“If those are creditors, they will serve you the moment you step out.”
“I am already in the elevator, Mark,” she said.

The line went silent for a moment.
“Hannah?” I called out.
“I used the service key your mother had,” she whispered.
“I am coming up to your floor right now.”
“There is someone else in the elevator with me.”

I pressed my foot down on the accelerator.
“Who is in the elevator with you?” I demanded.
“A man in a grey suit,” she said, her voice trembling.
“He asked me if I knew Hannah Collins.”
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I didn’t say anything,” she whispered.
“The doors are opening.”

The phone clicked and the line went dead.

I threw the phone onto the passenger seat.

The Bluetooth system in my car beeped, signaling the disconnected call.

I stepped harder on the gas pedal, weaving through the midday Miami traffic.