I had to use the main entrance like a visitor.

The security guard, a man named Thomas whom I had known for five years, looked down at his desk when I walked past.

I took the elevator to the administrative wing on the fifth floor.

The carpeted hallway was quiet, smelling of industrial floor wax and stale coffee.

Mara was waiting by the drinking fountain near the double doors of the boardroom.

She wore her blue scrubs, and a silver stethoscope hung around her neck.

“Are you ready?” she asked quietly.

I tapped my jacket pocket, feeling the metal edge of the flash drive.

“I have the raw file,” I said.

“How is your neck?” she asked, her eyes scanning the collar of my silk blouse.

“It hurts,” I said.

“But the swelling is down.”

“The police liaison called me this morning,” Mara whispered, leaning closer.

“They wanted copies of your intake charts and the radiology scans of your collarbone.”

“Did you give them to them?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Under the subpoena they issued yesterday.”

“The district attorney’s office is already looking at them.”