“This is dangerous, Emily,” Marcus said, studying the canvas.

“It is the only currency I have left,” I said.

He pointed to the second painting, a wash of crimson and deep navy.

“This one represents the offshore accounts?” he asked.

“The Cayman entities,” I said. “I painted the coordinates of the registration office into the background texture.”

The paint was still tacky to the touch.

It smelled of mineral spirits and pine.

“If the press understands what they are looking at, it will ruin them,” Marcus said.

“The business editors will understand,” I said. “I sent three personal invitations to the senior financial writers at the Tribune.”

Marcus walked to the window, looking down at the rainy Wabash Avenue below.

“Daniel will try to shut this down before the first glass of wine is poured,” he said.

“He won’t know the theme until he walks through the door,” I said.

“And if he stops the guests at the entrance?” Marcus asked.

“He can’t block a public sidewalk,” I said. “And the invitations are already digital.”

Marcus turned back to me, his expression grave.