My husband shoved me, shattering the bathroom mirror. His mother sneered, “Clean up this disgusting mess.” But as I fell, my husband roared, “What’s in your pocket?!” The red LED of my federal distress fob pulsed. Denied the third click, I threw myself onto the broken glass, and…

charity letterhead was slightly off. The metadata on Vance’s logistics invoices didn’t match the creation dates. I had downloaded it all, hiding it in a partitioned drive.

They had found the decoy folder.

Thorne stepped forward, placing his briefcase on the bedside table. He snapped the latches open with a sharp, synchronized click that sounded like continue reading …