The glass of Vale Tower had felt like a cage all afternoon.

By nine o’clock, the security guards had escorted Alexander out of his own lobby.

I stood across the street in the pouring rain, holding a black umbrella and a heavy leather satchel.

He walked toward me, his expensive wool coat soaked through and his blue tie undone.

“They took my access badge, Clara,” he said.

His voice was flat, completely empty of the authority he had held just hours ago.

“I know,” I said, stepping closer to share my umbrella.

“Marcus did this. He and Victoria.”

“We need to move, Alexander,” I told him, grabbing his wet sleeve.

“The police will be looking for you, and Marcus wants these files.”

I pulled him toward the subway entrance, away from the flashing lights of the patrol cars.

My apartment was a small fourth-floor walk-up in Astoria.

The radiator hissed in the corner, but the air inside remained cold.

Alexander paced the worn floorboards, his wet shoes leaving dark, irregular prints on my rug.

“Victoria knew every account number,” he muttered, staring down at his hands.

“She signed off on the Crane Capital wire transfers herself.”

“She set you up,” I said, setting the leather satchel on my small kitchen table.

I opened the brass clasp and pulled out three thick manila folders and an encrypted hard drive.

“These are the secondary ledgers Marcus kept off the main server.”

He stopped pacing and looked at me, his brow furrowing in the dim light of my desk lamp.

“How did you get those, Clara?”

“I’ve been watching Marcus for six months,” I said.

“My father used to work for Crane Capital before he died.”

He stepped closer, the smell of rain and wet wool rolling off him.

“You never told me that.”

“You never asked,” I said quietly.

A sudden, heavy knock rattled my wooden door.

The old brass lock groaned under the pressure of a shoulder against the wood.

“Clara!” a sharp voice called from the hallway.

It was Marcus.

“I know he’s in there with you,” Marcus shouted, his fist pounding the frame again.