“Yes, sweetheart,” I said. “We are safe here with Mr. Graves.”

Nathaniel stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the digital floor indicator.

The numbers ticked down: 45, 44, 43.

The silence in the elevator was heavy, broken only by the soft, mechanical hum of the cables.

I could see my own pale reflection in the polished brass panels of the cabin.

My mind raced back to the old days at Brindlewood, to the leaks we could never fix and the cold winter nights.

For twelve years, I had kept my head down, trying to avoid the notice of men like Arthur Dunleavy.

Now, we were descending directly into his path.

The elevator chimed, a soft, polite sound that felt entirely out of place in the empty building.

The doors slid open to reveal the vast, darkened expanse of the ground-floor lobby.

The high-security lobby of Graves Tower was usually bustling with people, but now it was dead silent.

The massive glass walls looked out onto the empty street, where rain lashed against the panes.