I holster the gun. Walk to her. Hands open where she can see them.
"Sloane." Her gaze finds me. "It's done," I say.
She nods. Her chin trembles once. She locks it down. "It's done," she repeats.
I reach for her. She meets me halfway, stepping off the wall and into my chest. Her arms wrap around my ribs as she buries her face in the space between my neck and shoulder. Sloane holds on with a grip that says she won't let go until her body decides it's safe.
I wrap my arms around her. One hand at the back of her head, one arm locked across her back.
"He's gone," I say into her hair. She nods against my neck. "He can't follow you home. Can't sit in a parking lot. Or send flowers. He can't grab your wrist. He can't show up at your hospital." Each sentence loosens her. Shoulders first. Her spine. Her arms, which ease from their grip and settle. "He's gone, Sloane."
"I know." Her voice is muffled against my shirt. "I watched."
"You did."
"I needed to."
"I know."
She draws back. Her eyes are red. Her face is streaked with tears she didn't feel herself crying. But her jaw is set and her gaze is clear.
"Take me out of this building."
I set my mouth to her forehead. Hold it there. There's a knock on the door. Soft. Felix.
I open it. He stands in the corridor with a black bag and a mop. Arden stands beside him, working on the device, adjusting cameras, erasing timestamps. Frankie on the other side, eyes on the door behind me.
"We've got it from here," Felix says.
I nod. Sloane steps past me into the corridor. She doesn't look back at the room.
Frankie falls into step beside her. A touch on Sloane's arm. Brief. Sure. Frankie peels off toward the stairwell, Arden trailing.
I take Sloane's hand. We walk toward the service exit. The comms are loud. McKenzie's managing the ballroom. Victor and Olivia are guiding buyers toward exits where Phoenix's people wait with phones recording. Malachi and Candace hold the perimeter. East is at the south corridor.
Nash. "Status?"
"Done," I say. A beat of silence.
Nash. "Copy."
We take the service stairs up and push through a fire exit into cold Chicago air. The night hits my face. Wind, exhaust, distant sirens. The alley behind the Blackwell is empty. A black car idles at the curb.
I open the door for Sloane. She slides in. I follow. The car pulls away.
The Blackwell shrinks in the rearview mirror. Glass and limestone, lit from inside, the scrolling ledger glowing through the windows, the building broadcasting its own autopsy.
Sloane leans into my side. I draw her close. Her head finds my shoulder.
The city moves around us. Headlights. Stoplights. The ordinary machinery of a world that doesn't know what just happened in a basement three blocks behind us.
Sloane's hand finds mine in my lap. She laces our fingers. Squeezes.
"You're shaking," she says.
She's right. A fine tremor running through my fingers. "Yeah," I say.
She brings my hand to her mouth and touches her lips to my knuckles. Holds them there.
