Vanessa let out a sharp, ragged sob, her bridal veil slipping from her hair to the floor.

“Claire, please,” she cried, grabbing my arm with manicured nails. “Tell them this is a mistake.”

I looked down at her hands, then back at the box.

“It isn’t a mistake, Vanessa,” I said.

The agents moved in, the metallic click of handcuffs echoing through the high-ceilinged room.

My father did not fight them.

He kept his head high, but his eyes were empty.

“This family is finished,” he muttered as they led him toward the exit.

Gabriel walked over to me and placed a hand on my shoulder.

“We need to go,” he said quietly. “The press will be outside in minutes.”

I nodded, my chest tight.

I reached into the wooden box and took out the thick envelope addressed to me in my mother’s neat, slanted handwriting.

“Let’s go to your place,” I said.

We walked out of the Whitmore Hotel through the kitchen doors to avoid the flashing cameras at the entrance.

The cold Chicago wind hit my face, carrying the scent of lake water and wet asphalt.