My fingers flew across the keyboard, bypassing the initial encryption blocks.

The screen flickered, a long column of numbers slowly aligning on the display.

The green glow of the terminal reflected in the rain-streaked window pane.

Outside, the New York downpour showed no signs of stopping.

Water droplets traced long, crooked paths down the glass, mimicking the lines of code scrolling before us.

My fingers hovered over the mechanical keyboard.

I pressed the return key to execute the final command.

The decryption script ran, its progress bar ticking upward in silence.

Ten percent.

Twenty percent.

Alexander did not move.

He stood so close I could feel the cold dampness radiating from his wool coat.

His breath was shallow, a quiet rustle in the small room.

Next door, the rhythmic hum and click of my mother’s oxygen machine kept a steady, clinical pace.

Fifty percent.

“If this partition is ten years old,” Alexander said, his voice low and tight, “it predates Marcus’s appointment to the board.”

“I know,” I said.

“Marcus was still a mid-level analyst in Chicago then,” he muttered.

“He couldn’t have authorized these transfers.”