Because somewhere inside Sterling Tower -- on one of those forty-two floors, behind one of those darkened windows -- was the life she was supposed to have had. The life that had been stolen from her, or given away, or lost in the space between a family's pride and a young man's rebellion. Her father -- Richard Sterling's son -- had fallen in love with the wrong woman, and the consequences of that love had rippled forward through decades until they reached Isabelle, standing on a sidewalk in shoes that were falling apart, looking up at a building that bore her real name.

The sun dropped behind the skyline, and the temperature fell with it. September in New York could be cruel that way -- warm enough during the day to trick you into leaving your jacket at home, cold enough at dusk to make you pay for it. Isabelle wrapped her arms around herself and took a step back from the curb, retreating into the shadow of the service alley that ran along the building's east side.

She should go. She really should go.

Five more minutes, she told herself. Then I'll leave.

The Mercedes S-Class came around the corner at 7:47 PM.

Isabelle knew the time because she had checked her phone -- a cracked iPhone 8 that Dorothy kept alive through sheer force of will and YouTube repair tutorials -- exactly one minute before. She had been composing a text to Dorothy, something about running late, when headlights swept across the alley entrance and the car turned sharply into Sterling Tower's driveway.

The car was silver. Sleek. Moving faster than it should have been for a residential driveway. The driver clearly knew the route well, taking the curve with the confidence of routine.

Isabelle was standing in the shadow where the alley met the driveway. She saw the headlights too late. Her body froze -- that ancient, useless response to danger, the deer-in-headlights paralysis that evolution should have bred out of humans centuries ago. She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Could only watch as the hood of the Mercedes grew larger in her vision, filling her entire world with silver metal and blinding light.

The brakes screamed.

The car stopped so close that Isabelle could feel the heat radiating from the hood. The bumper was inches from her knees. She stumbled backward, her ankle turning on the uneven pavement, and fell.

Not hard. Not dramatically. She simply sat down on the cold concrete, her legs folding beneath her, her hands scraping against the rough surface of the alley floor. The impact jarred her teeth together and sent a sharp sting through both palms.

For a moment, everything was silent except the engine's idle hum and the distant sound of traffic on Fifth Avenue.

Then the passenger door opened.

He was tall. That was the first thing she noticed. Tall enough that he had to unfold himself from the car, one long leg at a time, like a man stepping out of a space too small to contain him. He wore a dark suit -- charcoal, maybe black, she couldn't tell in the dim light -- and his tie was loosened at the collar, the top button of his shirt undone. His hair was dark, pushed back from his forehead, and his jaw was sharp enough to cast its own shadow.