“They won’t try anything on the expressway,” Ethan said, though his hand remained clenched on his knee.

I held the thick manila folder against my chest, the paper cool through my cotton shirt.

Inside were the unaltered surgical logs from the night Claire died, along with the offshore transfer records Daniel had authorized.

We drove in silence along the Edens Expressway, the Chicago skyline rising like a jagged wall of light in the distance.

By the time we pulled into the underground parking garage of the Whitmore building on Wacker Drive, it was 4:45 AM.

The lobby was empty, our footsteps echoing off the polished travertine floor as we headed to the private elevators.

“We are moving the meeting up to six,” Ethan said, pressing the button for the penthouse floor.

“Can you get the board members here that early?” I asked.

“I have already sent the emergency summons,” he said, showing me his secondary phone. “I told them it concerns an immediate hostile takeover attempt.”

The elevator doors opened onto the thirty-sixth floor, revealing a dark reception area.