“John,” my father said when the call connected. “It’s Daniel Whitaker.”

He paused, listening to the response.

“I have the evidence we discussed,” my father said. “All of it.”

“Yes, both the physical theft and the digital transfer logs,” my father added.

“I’ll meet you at your office in twenty minutes,” my father said.

He hung up the phone and looked at me.

“Are you ready, Sophie?” my father asked.

“I am,” I said.

We walked back inside the lobby, leaving the cold rain behind us.

The air in the office building was warm and smelled of carpet cleaner.

Ethan went toward the glass-walled office to print the documents.

My father and I stood near the receptionist’s desk.

The elevator chimed behind us.

The doors slid open with a soft hiss.

A woman in a tan trench coat stepped out into the lobby.

Her hair was damp from the rain, and her face was pale.

It was my mother, Claire.

Claire stopped when she saw us.

Her leather handbag swung against her hip, making a heavy clicking sound.

“Daniel,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “What are you doing here?”