Hundreds of faces looked up at us.

The politicians, the developers, the old-money heirs of Chicago—all of them stood in silence.

The front doors were wide open now, and the damp breeze from Lake Michigan swirled through the hall.

Two police cruisers sat in the driveway, their blue and red lights flashing against the wet stone pillars.

“What is the meaning of this?” a voice called out from the crowd.

It was Alderman Hayes, a long-time ally of the Sterling family.

No one answered him.

The agents escorted Miranda down the marble steps.

Her heels clicked sharply on the stone, a rhythmic, lonely sound.

Julian walked beside me, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“She really did it,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the steps.

“She took everything from your grandfather.”

“She did,” I said.

“I am sorry, Valerie,” he said.

I looked at him, searching his face for any sign of deceit.

I found only exhaustion.

“We have a lot to undo, Julian,” I said.

He looked down at the crowd of reporters who were now pushing past the security guards at the door.