I did not look at her.

My eyes stayed locked on my father’s chest, right where the silver buttons of his vest met.

“A ticket to a graveyard,” I said.

I backed up two steps, keeping my weapon steady, until my hip hit the edge of the mahogany desk.

The security terminal on the desk hummed, its cooling fan blowing warm, dusty air against my hand.

With my left hand, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the encrypted flash drive I had taken from his study.

I slotted it into the open USB port on the side of the terminal.

The monitor flickered, reflecting green and blue light across my father’s cold face.

“You are making a mistake,” my father said.

“Sit down, Richard,” I said.

He did not move.

“I said, sit down.”

I raised the Beretta three inches, aligning the front sight post with his chin.

He hesitated, then slowly sank into the leather armchair behind him.

His hands rested on the carved wooden armrests, his fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat.

I reached for the mouse with my left hand, my eyes darting between him and the screen.