My knees felt weak.

The green linoleum floor of the studio seemed to tilt.

“She won’t,” Blake said. He was talking to someone else now. “Superintendent? This is Blake Harrington. I have an emergency at my residence in Lincoln Park.”

I listened to him command the line.

He used the name of the high-ranking official like a shield.

On my phone, I could hear Miller’s heavy breathing.

“They are waiting,” Miller reported. “The officers are looking at their vehicle computer. I think they are getting a call.”

A long minute passed.

The air in the studio was freezing.

“They are turning off their lights,” Miller said.

I let out a breath I had not realized I was holding.

“Are they leaving?” I asked.

“The squad cars are backing down the driveway,” Miller said. “But the black town car is still parked across the street.”

“Keep the gates locked,” I said. “Do not let anyone near the perimeter.”

“Understood, Ms. Winters,” Miller said.

I ended the call.

My hands were shaking.

Blake finished his call and slid his phone into his pocket.