At 11:43 p.m., with my feet still dirty from the walk home and my father’s leather portfolio lying open beside my keyboard like a dead thing, my phone lit up with a text from my sister.

You need to stop digging.

That was how I knew I was right.

People like Brooklyn never warn you unless they’re scared.

I stared at the message for a long moment, feeling the hum of my old apartment settle around me.

The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and overheated electronics.

My desk lamp was off.

The laptop screen was the only light in the room, throwing everything into a cold blue glow that made even familiar things look sharper than usual.

I typed back three words.