Julian leaned back against the leather seat of the sedan.

“I will have my security team sweep the pier tomorrow,” he said.

“We do not need any surprises from Boston.”

I looked back out the window as the car sped through the Loop.

The concrete pillars of the elevated train tracks flashed past us in the dark.

I felt cold, but my hands were steady.

Adrian was desperate.

He had always relied on my calculations to keep his projects standing.

Now that he did not have them, he was trying to tear down the ones I built on my own.

The next morning, the wind off Lake Michigan was biting.

I stood in the temporary office on the third floor of the terminal building.

The smell of fresh blueprint ink and damp concrete filled the room.

Julian stood near the window, holding a cup of hot black coffee.

Margaret Hale sat at the long conference table, reviewing the press packets.

“The registrations are higher than we anticipated,” Margaret said.

She looked up, her glasses sliding down her nose.

“We have representatives from the major Chicago dailies, plus four national architectural reviews.”