We walked out into the brisk Philadelphia air, the scent of damp asphalt rising from the street.

A black sedan was already idling at the curb, its exhaust plume white in the cold air.

My father’s driver, Thomas, opened the rear door for us.

“Market Street,” I said as we slid into the leather seats. “Quickly.”

The car pulled into the midday traffic, the engine humming low and steady.

Sloane held her laptop on her knees, her screen illuminating her face.

“He’s calling me,” she whispered, staring at her phone.

“Put it on speaker,” I said. “Tell him you’re still at the office.”

She pressed the screen and held the phone between us.

“Nolan?” she said, her voice shaking slightly before she forced it to steady.

“Sloane, where are you?” Nolan’s voice was ragged, gasping for breath.

“I’m at the office, finishing the transfer logs,” she lied.

“The bank manager is refusing to authorize the wire,” Nolan hissed.

“He says there is a flag on the secondary account.”

“He says the Hartwell Civic Group legal compliance office put a hold on it.”