“Arthur Dunleavy, you are under arrest,” the officer said, pulling out a pair of metal handcuffs.

The sound of the cuffs clicking into place echoed through the high ceiling.

Dunleavy struggled, his face pressed against the cold glass of the lobby door.

“You’ll pay for this, Graves!” he yelled, his voice cracking with rage.

“I’ll drag you down with me!”

“Every single one of you!”

I watched as they led him away, his wet shoes squeaking against the floor.

He looked so small now, stripped of his authority and his expensive suit soaked with rain.

The second officer picked up the fallen briefcase and gathered the loose papers.

“We’ll need you to come down to the station to sign a statement, Mr. Graves,” the officer said.

“Of course,” Nathaniel said.

“I will be there shortly.”

The officer nodded, then followed his partner out into the rainy night.

The heavy glass doors slid shut, sealing out the sound of the wind.

The lobby was quiet again.

Charles Graves stood by the elevator bank, his head bowed.

“I’m going upstairs, Nathaniel,” the old man said, his voice barely a whisper.