The first twenty minutes were her driving. Radio on, her humming. Normal. Then she parked somewhere — the engine went off. A few seconds of silence. Then she said, out loud, to no one: "Okay. Okay. Let's go." Her voice was different. Tight. Not excited — almost scared. Footsteps. A door opening. And then — muffled, like she was inside a building — her voice saying a name I had never heard before. Not a man's name. Not a woman's name. Just a word. "Harlowe." And then she said: "I brought the envelope. Twelve hundred this time." The recorder caught footsteps, a chair scraping, the clink of what might have been a cup. And then a man's voice — older, raspy, unfamiliar — said, "You're late, Riley. We almost started without you." And for the next two hours, I listened to my girlfriend do something I never imagined she was capable of.