The twenty-ninth strike landed just as my daughter began singing Happy Birthday to herself.

By Saturday morning, the rain had cleared, leaving the Boston harbor washed in a sharp, brilliant sunlight that made the slate roofs of the North End look like sheets of wet steel. We stood on the observation deck of our wharf office—Everett, Silas, Dean, and I—watching the tugboats maneuver a massive container ship into the drydock near the old navy yard. The air smelled of salt, diesel, and wet pine from the spring growth in the public gardens. Sophie was sitting on the wide mahogany windowsill behind us, sketching pictures of seagulls with a box of Crayola crayons Dean had bought her at the stationer's down the street. Her yellow sundress caught the bright morning light, glowing like a small flame against the dark wood of the paneling. “The Cambridge trust accounts were transferred to the municipal fund at 8:00 AM,” Silas announced, checking his pocket watch with the precision of a Swiss train conductor. “The West End housing project has its full backing now. No bonds, no debt, no hidden liabilities. The city council voted unanimously to name the new community center after your father.” I didn't say anything for a long moment. I rested my palms against the cool glass of the window, looking down at the street where the delivery trucks were unloading crates of fresh produce for the open-air market by the docks. There were no shadows left in the corners of the office. The ledgers were balanced. The accounts were clean. The house on Beacon Hill was filled with the sound of a child singing songs she didn't have to invent in the dark anymore. Everett stepped up beside me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and pulling me close against his side. He didn't smell of ink and cold coffee this time; he smelled of cedarwood soap and the fresh salt air coming off the bay. “You did it, Maddie,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss into my hair. “The house is ours. The city is ours. Nobody can take any of it back.” I looked down at my hands—the hands that had held the iron bars of Harlan’s vault, the hands that had signed the federal subpoenas, the hands that now held the key to every door in the building. The scars across my collarbone didn't ache. They were just part of the map now—the map of how I got back to the room where decisions were made. “We didn't just take it back, Everett,” I said softly, watching Sophie hold up a drawing of a seagull with a bright yellow beak for Dean to admire. “We built something new on top of the ash.”