The File

The Amtrak train slid out of Grand Central at 7:14 a.m., and Serena watched the city dissolve into the gold-and-rust blur of Westchester before she let herself breathe. She had slept in the guest room, door locked, a chair wedged under the handle. Bennett hadn't come home. The phone had rung twice in the night, both times from numbers she didn't recognize, and she had let them go to voicemail.

Now she sat alone in a window seat, a wool coat folded over her lap, a leather satchel at her feet containing the one thing she could not leave in that apartment: the key to a safe-deposit box her father had left her at First Connecticut Trust in Greenwich.