“It was business, Nathaniel.”

“It was crime, Father,” Nathaniel corrected him.

He turned back to Dunleavy.

“Go ahead,” Nathaniel said.

“Press the button.”

Dunleavy froze, his thumb hovering a fraction of an inch above the screen.

“You’re bluffing,” Dunleavy said.

“The stock will plummet thirty percent by the opening bell.”

“Your investors will pull out of the waterfront project.”

“You’ll lose the company.”

“Then I will lose it,” Nathaniel said.

“But you will go to prison.”

The rain continued to beat against the high glass walls of the lobby.

It sounded like a thousand tiny fingers tapping on the window, trying to get inside.

The air in the lobby felt heavy, thick with the smell of wet wool and expensive floor wax.

The police officer watched them, his hand resting near his holster.

“Mr. Graves?” the officer asked again, looking confused by the talk of stock prices and mold.

“Just a moment, Officer,” Nathaniel said.

He took a step toward Dunleavy.

“The file you are uploading,” Nathaniel said.

“It contains the bank routing numbers for the offshore accounts, doesn’t it?”

Dunleavy didn’t answer, but his jaw clenched.