“We received a report of a stolen commercial database.”

The lawyer watched me, his smile widening.

“Last chance, Vivian,” he said, holding out the pen.

“Sign, and this all goes away.”

I looked at the pen, then at Helen, who was shrinking back into the bench.

The siren outside died down, leaving only the sound of the rain beating against the glass.

I reached out my hand.

But I didn’t take the pen.

I took the leather-bound book from Helen’s lap.

“No,” I said.

The officer took a step toward me.

“Ma’am,” he warned.

“Officer, look at the date on this ledger,” Diane said, stepping between us.

“This is a state-registered document.”

The officer paused, looking at the heavy book.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Proof of a felony,” Diane said.

She looked at Grant’s lawyer.

“And it wasn’t committed by my client.”

The lawyer’s smile vanished.

He reached for his phone, his fingers moving quickly.

“You’re bluffing,” he said.

“Call Grant,” I said, my voice finally steady.

“Tell him we have the original notary stamp.”

The officer looked between the three of us, confused.