“The FBI just executed a search warrant at Sterling’s campaign headquarters,” Gabriel said.

“They are waiting for these documents to issue the arrest warrants,” he added.

My father seemed to age ten years in an instant.

His shoulders slumped, and he sank into a nearby armchair, staring at the floor.

Arthur Vance turned and walked quickly toward the service stairs, not looking back.

“Let’s go, Claire,” Gabriel said, taking my elbow.

I looked at Vanessa one last time.

She was staring at me, her hands clutching her designer wedding dress as if it were a shroud.

There was no anger in her eyes now, only a desperate, clawing terror.

We left the hotel suite, the courier following closely behind us.

We rode the elevator down to the garage in silence.

The air in the concrete parking structure was cold and damp.

Gabriel’s black SUV was waiting, the engine idling quietly.

We got in, and Gabriel drove us through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago toward his penthouse.

The city lights blurred through the water on the windshield.

My hands were cold, and I clamped them together in my lap.