But they weren’t from ICE. The back of the windbreakers said FBI.

Barrett groped for the framed photos at the front of his desk and turned them around until they were facing him. Melanie and his children. He stared at them, but they weren’t looking at him. They were looking past him, to the trappings of his office, the prestige it brought them. And the money. Of course, the money. He was the job, and the job was him. Without the job, he was nothing, to them or to himself.

“Barry!” Gutman cried as a white dove swooped into the office and dive-bombed his head. He batted at it in a way that reminded Barrett of Melanie batting away his kiss at the airport. The dove flew a figure-eight circuit of the room, landed briefly on the back of the white chesterfield, then darted through the open door to the balcony.

Barrett grabbed his cigarettes. “I need a smoke,” he said, and went outside. He flicked a flame from the lighter, but the wind extinguished it at once. He tried again and failed again and finally threw the lighter and the cigarette to the balcony floor.

He’d hire the best criminal defense lawyer in the country. He’d hire Bill Centrello, who would dance circles around those government lawyers. He’d dream up some defense, he’d get the charges knocked down. They’d strike some kind of deal. A fine. Community service.

But Barrett knew he’d never work again. He’d never have value to anyone in this world again. By the time he paid the fine and his legal fees, he’d have negative value.

It was a sobering thought. He was literally worth more dead than alive.

Voices sounded from inside. Men shouting. Marcia, losing all her composure.

He pulled up to his knees on the ledge. He got one foot under him, and the other, and pushed up until he was standing on the narrow strip of stainless steel thirty stories above the city.

A gasp sounded behind him. Marcia was at the door with her knuckles in her mouth, and behind her was Elliott Gutman, his jaw agape with horror.

Barrett spread his arms and launched himself into a swan dive off the wall.

A hundred feet down another dove fluttered past him, and he thought: We’re both free now.

But in another hundred feet he had a different thought. He thought about that superpower he’d dreamed up, the ability to freeze all action in a scene. He wished he had that power, right this very—

Chapter 34

The technicians were just putting the final touches on the installation in Reception when the reporter arrived, and I was there to greet him when he stepped off the elevator. I recognized him; I’d read his online bio and most of his recent clips before agreeing to this interview.

“Hello.” I held out my hand. “Shay Lambert.”

He’d come alone; the Wall Street Journal didn’t run photographs with its profiles. I had to sacrifice my photo shoot when I chose the Journal over Vogue, but it was the right call. The investors read the Journal, and I worked for them now.