It started like any other morning. The city was already thick with heat, rising off the pavement and clinging to my clothes even in the early morning. I walked west along Fifty-Fifth Street, Brooks Brothers jacket over my arm. Delivery trucks groaned on Eighth Avenue, cab horns cut through the air, and a distant siren wailed and faded into the furnace of midtown.

I remember shifting my thoughts to the markets, the usual mental checklist running in the background. Futures were down. The fund was under pressure. Nothing I couldn’t handle, or so I told myself.

Then—

“Thomas Covie Hardin?”

The sound of my full name stopped me cold, like someone yanking a plug mid-sentence. Nobody used all three unless I was in trouble, and that was usually followed by Mom’s voice carrying through our kitchen. I turned, and there they were: two FBI agents, badges out, straight out of central casting.

"We need to ask you a few questions," one said.

His words floated somewhere beyond my comprehension.

I felt my pulse hammer as they gestured toward the Wendy’s next door. On autopilot, I climbed to the nearly empty upstairs seating area, fryer grease and stale coffee thick in the air. It was a bleak setting for the next act of my story. A homeless man dozed in the corner. Across a sticky table sat two FBI agents. Sweat soaked through my shirt and pants as the plastic booth clung to me. I was spiraling.

Makol said something about helping my country. But I couldn’t process what he was saying. He pulled a business card from his wallet and slid it across the table.

“You have an opportunity,” he said, voice level, “to help us build these cases, clean up the industry. And that would help you.”

Part of me wanted to grab the card and throw it back; this wasn’t who I was supposed to be. Informant? But the fear was real. I’d crossed a line and now they were offering a lifeline.

If I said yes, everything would change. If I said no, it might already be too late. I knew I was guilty. I swallowed hard.

And then, for the first time since we had sat down, Trigg moved. She reached across the table and placed her hand on mine. Her voice was softer than I expected.

A lump formed in my throat. And just like that, it was over. The agents stood up. I followed them outside into the blinding sunlight. My life had stopped, but the city hadn't. Taxis honked. People rushed past, hurrying to work. I felt like a ghost watching my old life vanish down the street. An hour earlier, I was a hedge fund partner. Now I was something else entirely. Makol raised a hand and hailed a cab for me.

"I don't want you walking into traffic by accident," he said. "I know this is the worst day of your life."

By midmorning, my brain was a blender. I couldn't take looking at the Bloomberg terminal another second. And then a crushing realization hit: I could go to prison.

I took the elevator to the street. For a while, I walked aimlessly. But I knew I had to tell someone, or my head would explode. I walked blocks before I found myself in front of the huge stained glass of St. Patrick's Cathedral.

“You knew the industry was corrupt,” he said, finally. “And you allowed yourself to be pulled into it.”

The way he said it made me think I wasn’t the first hedge fund guy to end up behind that screen.

“And it sounds like 99% of your life, you’ve tried to do the right thing,” he said. “So it’s that 1% we have to atone for.” He wasn’t letting me off the hook. But he understood. “If the FBI is giving you a chance to clean up the industry,” he continued, almost in a whisper, “you should do it.”

I’d expected a few Hail Marys. Maybe a couple Our Fathers.

Instead, I got a federal-level assignment.

In hindsight, I probably should have gone to a lawyer instead of a priest. But he gave me something close to peace. I stepped out of the wooden box, dazed.

As I walked back to the office, I called Agent Trigg.

“I’ll meet again.”