All this time we’d been looking in the wrong direction.I was so sure it was Joshua, even when I didn’t want him to be.Even Caleb had been sure of it.But we were wrong.So terribly wrong.
My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat like a thunderclap in my ears.I stare at the screen, watching the progress bar crawl forward—72%...73%...Each percentage point bringing us closer to disaster.Every file he transfers is another nail in our coffin.
I have to stop it.Now.
My hands hover over the keyboard.What’s his password?I try clicking the cancel button, but a password prompt appears.I type in ‘Steven’—Nothing.‘Password’—Nothing.My fingers tremble as I try ‘Marian,’ his wife’s name—Still nothing.
The progress bar ticks to 74%.
Sweat beads on my forehead as my eyes dart around the screen, looking for any way to interrupt the transfer.The room feels too hot, too small.My breathing quickens, shallow and fast.There’s a ringing in my ears that grows louder with each passing second.
76%.
Think, Eve, think!I scan the desk for any clues, any scrap of paper with a password written down, but there’s nothing.Just Steven’s neat stack of folders, his perfectly arranged pens, his family photo.
78%.
The dim glow of the screen illuminates the ports on the side of the laptop.The Wi-Fi adapter, a small USB dongle glowing with a blue light.If I can’t cancel the transfer, maybe I can cut the connection.
My fingers feel clumsy, adrenaline making them shake as I reach around the laptop.I grab the tiny adapter, hesitating for just a fraction of a second.What if I’m wrong?What if there’s an innocent explanation?But the email address, the restricted files...
80%.
I pull the adapter out with a sharp tug.The connection icon on the screen flashes, then shows an error.But the progress bar doesn’t stop—it’s still transferring something, somehow.Panic surges through me, my pulse a frantic rhythm against my throat.I press the power button, holding it down with white-knuckled desperation.
One second.Two seconds.The screen flickers.
Three seconds.Four seconds.
The progress bar freezes at 82%.
Five seconds.
The screen goes black.
I let out a shaky breath, slumping forward as relief washes over me.I did it.I stopped the transfer.For a moment, I just breathe, trying to slow my racing heart.Then reality crashes back in.This laptop contains proof of Steven’s betrayal—emails, file transfers, everything we need to nail him.I can’t leave it here.
I glance at my desk across the room, where my phone sits charging.I need to call Caleb, call security—but I need this evidence first.
Carefully, I close the laptop and pick it up, tucking it under my arm.It feels heavy, weighted with the evidence of months of deception.The files alone would be enough to get Steven fired, maybe even prosecuted for corporate espionage.
I turn toward my desk, taking a step forward, when a voice freezes me in place.
“Eve?”Steven’s voice comes from the doorway, sounding like his normal, mild-mannered self.“What are you doing?”
I turn slowly, clutching the laptop against my chest.For a split second, he looks like the same old Steven—tired eyes, rumpled shirt, slight frown of confusion.Then his gaze drops to the laptop under my arm.
The change is instantaneous and terrifying.His eyes narrow, all pretense of exhaustion vanishing.His friendly expression morphs into cold irritation, jaw tightening, nostrils flaring.It’s like watching a mask slip from his face, revealing something harder and more dangerous underneath.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”His voice is different now—colder, devoid of the tired dad persona he’s cultivated for years.
I take a step back, my fingers instinctively wrapping around my coffee mug, the only potential weapon within reach.The office is dim, most of the lights turned off for the night.Steven stands in the doorway, his silhouette dark against the faint glow of the hallway lights.
Thunder rumbles outside as I study him in the half-light.Everything about him has changed.His posture, usually slouched with fake fatigue, is now straight and alert.His eyes, normally tired and gentle, have hardened to flints of ice.His mouth, typically curved in a self-deprecating smile, is now a thin, cruel line.
The night air feels suddenly charged with tension, thick and oppressive.I tighten my grip on the mug, calculating the distance between us, wondering if I could make it to the door before he reaches me.
“It’s been you all along.”My voice sounds steadier than I feel.“You’re the mole.”
