Sloane looked up at me, her eyes narrow and searching.

“How do I know I can trust you?” she asked.

“You don’t,” I said.

“But you know my father.”

“He is a man of his word, and he wants his granddaughter protected more than he wants to see you in a orange jumpsuit.”

She sat in silence for a long minute.

I did not press her.

I let the weight of her choices hang in the air between us.

Outside, the wind picked up, throwing a sheet of water against the glass.

Finally, Sloane reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a small, silver flash drive.

“It’s all on here,” she said, her voice shaking.

“The drafts, the metadata, and the emails from Nolan’s personal account directing me to forge your signature.”

“He wanted the document ready in case you tried to leave him after the baby was born.”

She slid the drive across the glass desk.

It stopped right next to my phone.

I reached out and picked it up, the metal cold against my fingers.

“Thank you, Sloane,” I said, slipping it into my pocket.