“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“They’re setting me up,” she cried. “Grant and Helen. I just saw the board agenda for tomorrow.”

“Where are you?” I asked, looking out the dark window.

“I’m driving,” she said, a sob breaking her voice. “I have the real documents, Emma. The ones Grant signed.”

“The physical wire transfers?” I asked.

“Yes,” she whispered. “The ones with his actual signature, not the digital key. I’m coming to find you.”

Before I could answer, a loud honk echoed through the line, followed by the screech of tires.

“Vanessa!” I yelled.

The line went completely silent.

I stared at the lifeless screen, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Vanessa?” I whispered, though I knew the line was dead.

I dialed her number back immediately, my thumb shaking against the glass.

The call went straight to voicemail, the computerized greeting flat and empty.

I stood up and walked to the window, pressing my forehead against the cold pane.

Rain streaked down the glass in heavy, jagged sheets, blurring the streetlights below.