I took the small plastic bag from her hand.

The military-issue flash drive was heavy, its matte black casing familiar to me from years of active duty.

I looked at the label again.

My name. Tomorrow’s date.

“We need to get out of the open,” I said, grabbing her elbow. “The security office. Now.”

We hurried across the slick courtyard, our boots splashing through the shallow puddles that had formed near the garage doors.

The private security office was a small, concrete-block structure tucked behind the main carriage house.

My father had built it ten years ago to monitor the estate’s perimeter cameras, but it had eventually become a storage space for old paper records and outdated electronics.

I reached the heavy metal door and pulled my master key card from my pocket.

The lock clicked, a small green light blinking on the reader.

I pushed the door open, ushering Madison inside before me.

The air inside was warm and smelled of old carpet, dust, and ozone from the server racks in the corner.

I shut the door behind us and turned the deadbolt.