“The internal server,” I said. “Harrington Industries routes all executive communications through a private gateway for security. If those messages were fake, the server logs will show where they actually originated.”

“Do you still have the decryption keys?” Sarah asked.

“I think so,” I said. “On my old external drive in the closet.”

“Get it,” Sarah said. “Come to my apartment. We’ll look at the data together.”

I hung up and went to the closet.

I pulled down a dusty plastic bin filled with old research papers and textbooks.

At the bottom, wrapped in a static-free bag, was a small black hard drive.

I put it in my bag, grabbed my coat, and locked the apartment door behind me.

The air outside was growing colder, the sky turning the color of wet slate.

I walked quickly toward the subway station, keeping my head down.

Every shadow felt like a threat.

Every passing car looked like the black sedan from last night.

I reached Sarah’s apartment building in Lincoln Park thirty minutes later.

She met me at the door with two mugs of tea.