“It wasn’t a mistake,” I said.

I held it tight, the metal edges pressing into my skin.

“I know what is on here, Daniel,” I said.

Clara leaned back against my worktable, brushing a stray speck of charcoal off her designer trousers.

“It is encrypted, darling,” Clara said. “You wouldn’t even know how to open the directory.”

“I didn’t have to,” I said. “I heard you both just now.”

The wind rattled the loose glass pane of the studio’s north window.

Outside, the elevated train roared past on Wabash Avenue, shaking the floorboards beneath our feet.

I waited for the noise to fade before I spoke again.

“You killed Arthur,” I said.

Clara’s expression did not change, but her fingers tightened around the edge of the wooden table.

“Arthur had a weak heart,” Clara said cold-voiced. “The stress of the market got to him.”

“The stress of his wife handing his internal financial projections to his biggest rival got to him,” I said.

Daniel took another step toward me, his leather shoes clicking against the grit on the floor.

“Emily, give me the drive,” Daniel said.