It was a small, black leather book with a brass clasp.

It contained three years of Julian’s offshore transactions.

He had used my culinary business as a shell company to launder money from his logistics firm.

I had found it three weeks ago.

That was when the locks on the doors changed.

That was when the cameras went up.

“Save the draft,” Julian commanded.

“Let me look at it before you publish.”

“I need to publish it now,” I said.

“The automated newsletter goes out to twenty thousand subscribers at six o’clock.”

“If the link is broken, I lose my sponsor.”

“We cannot have you losing your little income,” Julian sneered.

“Go ahead. Publish it.”

I clicked the blue button at the bottom of the screen.

The progress bar crawled across the top of the browser.

*Post published successfully.*

I let out a breath I had been holding for three minutes.

Now, I had to wait.

It was five-fifty-nine.

The kitchen lights suddenly flickered and dimmed.

The blue LED strip under the cabinets glowed a solid, warnings-only red.