He looked old and desperate.

“They are paying me five million dollars for the Columbus transit blueprints,” Martin said.

“And the proprietary client lists,” I added, my voice trembling.

Martin glared at me through the dim light.

“Keep your mouth shut, girl,” he snapped.

“That five million is the only thing keeping the banks from seizing my house.”

“You ruined yourself, Martin,” my father said.

“You took loans you couldn’t pay, and you used my company’s name to secure them.”

The scraping sound at the door stopped.

It was replaced by a heavy, metallic thud.

The emergency exit door rattled in its frame.

My phone screen flickered again.

Another message from the unknown number appeared.

*The courier is impatient.*

I showed the screen to my father.

He squinted at the blue light, his jaw tightening.

“Who is text messaging you?” Martin asked, trying to look over my shoulder.

“None of your business,” I said.

My father reached into his pocket and pulled out his own phone.

He dialed a number and put the phone to his ear.

“Ethan,” my father said into the receiver.