We walked up the wide marble staircase, our footsteps echoing against the stone walls.

The air upstairs was cooler, away from the heat of the crowd below.

At the top of the stairs, two security guards stood outside the double mahogany doors of the oak room.

Julian nodded to them, presenting his host pass, and they opened the doors for us.

Inside, the room was quiet, lit by a roaring fireplace and decorated with dark wood paneling.

Margaret Hale stood by the hearth, speaking with the city’s commissioner of public works.

She looked up as we entered, her sharp eyes taking in my expression immediately.

“Claire,” Margaret said, stepping away from the commissioner. “Julian. I didn’t expect to see you up here. Is there a problem?”

“There is, Margaret,” I said, holding up my tablet. “And it concerns the safety of the entire Chicago waterfront project.”

Margaret’s face went completely still.

She motioned for us to join her in the quiet corner of the room, near the large leaded glass windows overlooking the dark, wind-swept lake.

“What has happened?” she asked.