The fluorescent lights of Lakeview General hummed a jagged, aggressive tune that seemed to vibrate directly behind my eyes. I sat in a plastic chair that had been bolted to the floor sometime in the late nineteen-nineties, staring at my hands.

"Travis," I spat, pinning his arm behind his back with the full weight of my knee against his spine. "You picked the wrong door."

Travis let out a harsh, pained laugh, blood trickling from a small cut on his lip where he had struck the wall. "You think arresting Arthur or putting me in handcuffs is going to stop this, Owen? The board has contingency plans. People like Arthur don't fall alone. They pull the whole building down with them."

"Not this time," a calm, authoritative voice echoed from the open doorway behind us.

I looked up. Detective Miller stood in the hallway, flanked by two armed patrol officers with their weapons drawn and safety catches off.

"Good catch, Mr. Hargrove," Miller said, stepping into the apartment and nodding to the officers as they moved in to haul Travis up from the floor and slap heavy steel cuffs onto his wrists. "We've been tracking this unit's communication signals all evening. His phone just pinged off your building's relay tower. We had a perimeter set up before he even picked your lock."

As the officers hauled Travis away toward the service elevator, Miller lingered for a moment, bending down to retrieve the silenced pistol from the floor and slipping it carefully into an evidence bag.

"He wasn't here just to send a message, Owen," Miller said, looking me dead in the eye. "Arthur Vance knows his grand jury indictment drops tomorrow morning. They were desperate to recover the physical flash drive Claire hid in her apartment—the one you secured."