awe and terror.
I walked out of the St. Regis Hotel and into the cool, crisp Chicago night. The valet brought my car, but I waved him off. I wanted to walk.
Behind me, the sirens began to wail, approaching the hotel to collect Marcus Thorne and, eventually, Eleanor, once the attempted murder charges were officially filed by Ms. Sterling.
I had lost everything that night. I had lost a wife I cherished, a son I adored, a best friend I trusted, and a life story I had proudly believed in for forty years. I was an old man, walking alone down Michigan Avenue with nothing but the clothes on my back and a company I now had to rebuild from the ground up.
But as I looked up at the towering skyscrapers, feeling the cold wind on my face, a strange sensation washed over me. My chest didn’t hurt.