The air on the fortieth floor of Lawson and Cole Tower in downtown Chicago did not move, it simply hovered with the scent of polish, dark roast coffee, and filtered air. Through the wide glass walls, the city stretched toward Lake Michigan in a blur of steel and gray sky, yet inside the executive level everything felt sealed off from the noise below.
Avery Collins stood near the reception desk, smoothing the fabric of her thrift store blazer and adjusting the strap of her worn leather bag. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, thin from years of lung disease but stubborn as ever, telling her to walk in like she belonged and never let anyone see her hesitate.
Her heart was racing anyway, beating so hard she thought the receptionist might hear it across the marble floor. This job meant medication, rent for their tiny apartment in South Side Chicago, and a chance to stop counting coins before every grocery run.
“Mr. Lawson will see you now,” the assistant said softly. Her name was Diane Porter, and she had the sharp eyes of someone who had survived decades among powerful men and their secrets.