Elias stared at the static-filled radio on his shoulder.

His fingers hovered over the plastic button.

“Elias, do you copy?” the voice screamed again through the static.

Arthur’s face went pale under the harsh fluorescent lights of the office.

The skin around his eyes tightened into sharp, angry lines.

“Get the book, Elias,” my father whispered.

His voice lacked its usual smooth composure.

“Now,” he added.

Elias did not move immediately.

His eyes darted from me to the heavy oak door of the office.

“They’re in the building, Mr. Whitmore,” Elias said.

“We have two minutes,” my father said, stepping toward me. “Give me the ledger, Lena.”

I took a slow step backward until my spine pressed against the cold glass of the window.

Outside, the Chicago rain smeared the lights of the city into long, yellow streaks.

My hand stayed inside my skirt pocket, my fingers wrapping around the cool, heavy brass of Roman’s lighter.

I felt the ribbed wheel under my thumb.

“You don’t understand what you’re holding,” Arthur said.

He reached out, his fingers twitching.

“I understand exactly what it is,” I said.