I sat down at the desk and buried my face in my hands.

I let my shoulders shake, simulating a sob, though my eyes were dry and my mind was sharp.

Behind the shield of my fingers, I opened my phone’s messaging app.

I typed a reply to the unknown number.

“You win,” I sent.

“Please don’t do anything else to me.”

“I just want my files back.”

I stared at the screen, waiting for the typing bubbles to appear.

The room was dead silent except for the faint hum of the hard drive in my laptop.

My phone buzzed in my palm.

“Your files are no longer your concern,” the message replied.

“They are in safe hands now.”

“Whose hands?” I typed back, pretending to panic.

“Hunter’s? Barbara’s?”

“Just tell me what you want me to do to get them back.”

“I will drop the academic grievance.”

“I will let Hunter take credit for the dissertation.”

I needed to keep them talking, to buy myself enough time to run a diagnostic.

While I typed with one hand, my other hand reached for my laptop.