I stared at him, the air in the lobby suddenly feeling very cold.

“On what charges?” Diane asked.

“Industrial espionage,” the lawyer said.

He looked at the black USB drive still clutched in my left hand.

“And theft of trade secrets.”

I looked down at the drive, the plastic surface reflecting the harsh lights.

“That is my design,” I said.

“The Whitmore Group owns the copyright,” the lawyer replied.

“And you just brought the evidence right to us.”

The sound of a siren echoed from the street outside.

The blue and red lights began to flash against the lobby windows.

I looked at Diane, my heart racing.

“What do we do?” I whispered.

Diane didn’t answer.

She kept her eyes fixed on the lawyer.

The lobby doors opened, and the cold wind rushed inside.

A police officer stepped through the threshold.

“Is there a Vivian Whitmore here?” he asked.

I took a step back, my heel hitting the edge of the carpet.

“Yes,” I said.

“Ma’am, I need you to step away from the desk,” the officer said.

He reached for his belt.