Arthur did not pull over.

Instead, he pressed his foot harder on the gas pedal, and the sedan surged forward into the gray Chicago rain.

“We are going straight to the federal building,” Arthur said. “It is the only place with enough security to keep you safe.”

The rain smeared across the windshield as the wipers struggled to keep up with the downpour.

My hand shook against my stomach, feeling the slight, reassuring movement of my unborn child.

I dialed Whitaker’s number back.

The line rang three times before going straight to a generic voicemail greeting.

“He is cleaning up his mess,” I muttered, looking out at the dark, towering skyline.

“Or Callum is,” Arthur replied, his eyes fixed on the slick road ahead.

The tires screeched slightly as Arthur pulled into the subterranean garage of the Dirksen Federal Building.

Two federal marshals met us at the secure elevator bank, their badges gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“Mrs. Prescott,” the taller marshal said, nodding curtly to me. “Judge Mallory is already in her chambers. Mr. Voss has arrived.”