The weight that had rested on my shoulders for twelve years seemed to lift.

“Thank you, Nathaniel,” I said.

“Do not thank me,” he said. “Thank your daughter.”

Julian turned on his heel and walked toward the exit, his shoes clicking loudly on the stone.

No one stopped him.

He pushed through the heavy glass doors and disappeared into the rainy night.

We walked out of Graves Tower together, Ruby holding my left hand.

In my right hand, I carried the thick envelope containing the deed.

The air outside was cool and smelled of wet pavement.

We took a taxi back to Brindlewood Apartments.

The yellow light of the taxi interior illuminated Ruby’s face as she watched the city streets roll by.

When we arrived, the brick facade of Brindlewood looked different in the dark.

It no longer looked like a prison or a trap.

It looked like a home.

Arthur Dunleavy’s office door was sealed with police tape.

The hallway was quiet, the usual smell of dampness still lingering, but now it felt temporary.

We walked up the stairs to our apartment on the third floor.