The skyscrapers of Chicago rose up around us, dark giants against the stormy sky.

We pulled up to the curb outside my agency’s headquarters.

The glass doors of the lobby were brightly lit, casting yellow squares onto the wet pavement.

I pushed my door open and ran through the rain, Marcus following close behind.

The security guard nodded as we entered the warmth of the lobby.

In the corner, sitting on a low leather sofa, was Garrett.

His expensive suit was rumpled, his tie loosened.

A thick manila folder rested on the glass coffee table in front of him.

He looked up as the elevator doors chimed, his eyes rimmed with red.

“Clara,” he said, standing up slowly.

He looked smaller than he used to.

The confidence that had defined him for years seemed to have evaporated.

“You brought the documents,” I said, walking over to the table.

“I did,” he said.

He reached down and opened the folder, revealing several pages covered in legal text.

“If I sign these,” he said, looking up at me with desperate eyes, “will you let me see them? Just supervised visits. Just an hour a week.”