“You know too much,” Arthur said, his eyes narrowing. “He’ll never let you walk.”

“Julian is a businessman,” I said. “He knows what I am worth. You never did.”

I slipped my right hand into the pocket of my knit cardigan.

My fingers closed around a small, rectangular plastic device.

It was a remote transmitter, no larger than a car key fob.

It was linked directly to the secure server I had spent the last three weeks building in the basement of this cabin.

“What is that?” Arthur asked, his eyes dropping to my pocket.

“My insurance policy,” I said.

“I have a digital vault,” I explained, keeping my voice calm. “It contains every bank routing number, every wire transfer, and every recorded conversation I saved during my five years in your office.”

Arthur’s face drained of color, the gray light from the driveway making him look like a ghost.

“You didn’t,” he whispered.

“I did,” I said. “The files are already encrypted and queued.”

I let my thumb rest on the small, raised button of the transmitter.