I would buy out Elliot Crane’s shares for pennies on the dollar.

I would rebuild Whitaker-Crane under my own name.

My phone vibrated in my hand.

I looked down at the screen.

It was an alert from the firm’s automated security system.

The main vault accounts were being accessed from an unauthorized terminal upstairs.

I looked up at the elevator display.

The lights were moving.

Someone was still in the building, trying to move the remaining funds.

The metal of the handcuffs made a sharp, dual clicking sound that echoed in the high-ceilinged lobby.

Graham did not fight them.

His shoulders slumped, and his head hung low as the taller officer pulled his wrists behind his back.

“Keep your head down, Graham,” Vance muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

“I will call the office from the station,” Vance added, though he did not look Graham in the eye.

The second officer turned to me, his badge catching the bright light from the glass atrium.

“We will need you to come down to the station later today to sign the formal statement, Mrs. Vance,” the officer said.