I walked quickly down Wabash Avenue, my boots clicking against the pavement.

My car was parked in the corner of the third level of the concrete garage.

I unlocked the door and got inside, the engine starting with a quiet purr.

I sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, my hands resting on the steering wheel.

They were shaking slightly.

I pulled out of the garage and turned onto Michigan Avenue.

The city was gray, shrouded in a heavy mist that blurred the tops of the skyscrapers.

My phone rang.

It was an unknown number.

I connected the call to the car’s Bluetooth system.

“Emily,” a voice said.

It was not Daniel, and it was not Clara.

It was a voice I had not heard in three years.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“It’s Marcus,” the man said.

Marcus was Daniel’s former head of security, the one who had disappeared shortly after my gallery was shut down.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I’m in Chicago, Emily,” he said.

“Why are you calling me?”

“Because Daniel didn’t just manipulate the stocks,” Marcus said.