“We moved her to a cabin in Wisconsin three hours ago.”

“She has an agent with her.”

“Did she ask about me?” I asked.

Miller looked out the window at the passing streetlights.

“No, Adrian,” he said.

“She did not.”

I nodded and looked down at my hands.

My knuckles were scraped and raw.

I deserved her silence.

I had brought the violence to her doorstep, and now I was paying the price.

We arrived at the federal building in downtown Chicago after midnight.

The garage doors closed behind us with a heavy, metallic clang.

The basement was warm and smelled of exhaust and damp concrete.

Two guards in gray uniforms met us at the elevator.

They did not speak to me.

They searched my pockets and took my wallet, my keys, and my watch.

They handed the items to Miller in a plastic bag.

“He stays in the holding cell on the fourth floor,” Miller told them.

“Keep him away from the general population.”

The guards led me to the elevator.

The ride up was silent, the cables groaning in the shaft.