The high-pitched wail of a siren began to grow louder, echoing off the wet asphalt below.

“You planned this,” Daniel said, his voice flat.

“I learned from the best,” I said.

I picked up my leather bag from the chair and swung the strap over my shoulder.

“You always told me to protect my assets, Daniel,” I said.

“I’m just protecting mine,” I added, looking at the large, unfinished canvas behind me.

The painting was a wash of dark blues and grays, the shape of the Chicago skyline barely visible through the fog.

It was the view from the penthouse, but seen from the outside, cold and distant.

“Let’s go,” Clara said to her men, her voice thin.

She did not look at Daniel as she walked toward the freight elevator.

The security guards followed her, their heavy footsteps muffled by the dust.

Only the journalist and her cameraman remained, their lenses still trained on Daniel.

Daniel stood in the center of the room, the bright light from the window catching the silver at his temples.

He looked older now, the sharp lines of his face sagging under the weight of the silence.