“But it didn’t,” I said.

“No,” Sarah said, pointing to a string of numbers. “The originating MAC address belongs to a physical terminal inside the building.”

“Which terminal?”

“Let me map the port,” she said, her fingers flying across the keys.

The hard drive clicked, a frantic sound like a small insect trapped in a box.

I stood behind her, watching the numbers shift and resolve.

I remembered the night Blake had confronted me in our apartment overlooking Central Park.

He had held his phone out, his face pale, his eyes filled with a cold fury I had never seen before.

*How could you sell the turbine specs, Emma?* he had asked, his voice cracking. *It’s all here. You sent these to Mercer.*

I had denied it, begged him to look at my phone, but my phone had been missing for three hours that afternoon.

When I found it on the kitchen counter, the sent history was empty, but the server logs he had been shown by his family’s security team were absolute.

“Port four-dash-B,” Sarah announced, breaking the silence.