The sound of sirens began to echo from the street below, rising up through the rain.

Celeste looked at the key in her hand, then at me, her expression hardening.

She walked past Bennett without looking at him and placed the silver key in my palm.

“He kept the offshore ledger in a private lockbox at the Carlyle,” she said.

Bennett stared at her, his mouth open.

“You traitor,” he whispered.

She didn’t look back as she walked into the warm light of the penthouse.

***

Twelve hours later, the rain was still falling over Foley Square.

The courtroom was cold, smelling of old paper and damp wool.

Judge Arthur Vance sat behind the elevated mahogany bench, his brow deeply furrowed.

Julian stood at the podium, his posture straight, a thick blue binder open in front of him.

Bennett sat at the defense table, his tie crooked and his eyes dark with exhaustion.

His attorney, a sharp-faced man named Harris, kept whispering in his ear.

I sat next to Julian, my fingers tightly interlaced in my lap.

Priya sat in the row behind us, clutching her laptop.