The second security guard moved toward the journalist, his hand rising to block the lens.

“Touch that camera,” the journalist said, “and you’ll be on the evening news before we even finish the broadcast.”

“We are live, Mr. Hayes,” she added, looking past the guard’s shoulder.

Daniel’s eyes shifted from the camera to me.

The silence in the room was thick, smelling of old turpentine and wet brick.

Outside, the first low rumble of morning traffic on Wabash Avenue began to filter through the glass.

“You think this changes anything?” Daniel asked, his voice low and dangerous.

He stepped closer to me, ignoring the camera now.

“A few lines of audio,” he said. “My lawyers will have it thrown out of any court in Cook County by noon.”

“It’s not for the courts, Daniel,” I said.

“Then who is it for?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Look at Marcus,” I said.

Daniel turned his head slowly.

Marcus Vance was no longer looking at his phone.

He was looking at Daniel with an expression that was very close to terror.

“Daniel,” Marcus whispered, his voice cracking. “The pre-market trading.”