It wasn’t a courier.

It was Thomas Vale himself, holding a black briefcase, his face pale and drawn.

Richard unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“Mr. Vale,” Richard said, his voice cold.

“You are early.”

Thomas Vale stepped inside, wet from the mist, and looked directly at me.

“We need to talk, Emily,” Vale said, his voice trembling.

“Now.”

He reached into his coat pocket.

Richard’s hand remained in his pocket, his shoulders tense and squared.

Thomas Vale’s fingers trembled as he pulled his hand back out of his coat.

He was holding a small, silver USB drive.

“This is everything,” Vale whispered.

His voice was barely audible over the sound of the rain starting to tap against the glass.

“Get inside,” Richard said, his tone flat and unyielding.

Vale stepped into the warm foyer, his wet loafers leaving dark tracks on the polished hardwood.

I stepped back, my chest tight as I watched the man who had helped torment my family for years.

He looked smaller now, his expensive wool coat damp and his hair clinging to his forehead.