“I’m trying to keep you safe,” she said, pocketing the pencil.
My face felt waxy. I tried not to think about that as I followed her up four flights of stairs.
“Elevators are totally underrated,”I said when we paused for a breather.
She nodded. “So are gym memberships. We really need to get into shape, you know?”
“Wearein shape,” I argued.
“The shape that enables us to climb stairs without needing oxygen tanks,” she clarified.
“Oh, that kind of in shape. Yeah, I don’t even think I ever want to be that kind of in shape.” Really, I didn’t want to put in the workout hours necessaryto get into that kind of shape. I yanked off my hoodie and shoved it in my tote.
Dylan made another phone call and Quentin worked his techie magic again, unlocking the fourth-floor door. Something about the sound of our feet against the carpet of Dylan’s office finally made this real. We were in her old workplace. There was no going back without the spreadsheet, and if we got caught we’d probablyboth spend the night in jail.
“At least it’s a Wednesday,” I said.
Dylan’s eyebrows rose in question.
“If someone comes, make sure you hide. If I get caught, Daddy can bail me out tomorrow. If you get caught, well...”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. They’ll revoke my bail,” Dylan said before creeping further in.
The locks were electronic, so Quentin was able to get us all the way into Kirk’s officebefore we encountered our first problem. Dylan froze in front of Kirk’s desk and let out the most creative stream of almost swear words I’d ever heard.
“Problem?” I asked.
“It’s gone!” She gestured at the desk. “His mother-freaking, holy crap-on-a-stick computer is flippin’ gone.”
“Could you access the spreadsheet from someone else’s computer?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes. Possibly. His assistanthas access to it.”
“I thoughtyouwere his assistant?” I asked.
“No. I’m the assistant for the financials. He has a personal assistant. Michelle.”
“Think he was trying to sleep with her too?” I asked.
“Probably.” Dylan shrugged. “Her desk is this way. Come on.”
Half-crouched, we wove our way through office furniture, heading toward a cubicle. Dylan powered on the computer and we waited asit whirred to life. The password prompt came up and Dylan swore again. Then she started searching through drawers.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“The security Nazis make us change our computer password every thirty days. Nobody can ever remember theirs, so we all write it down and stash it somewhere around our desk.”
“That’s some fine security there,” I said, joining in her search.
“Nodoubt.”
I found half a Post-it under a picture of a girl with a cat. It had a handwritten series of letters and numbers on it. “Could this be it?”
Dylan shrugged and tried it. When it didn’t work, we continued our search, finding the password that worked stuck to the bottom of the tape dispenser. The desktop fired up and Dylan stuck a flash drive into the front of the computer. Then she clickedthrough files, copying some to the drive, and opening others. One of the spreadsheets required a code. She tried the boot password but it didn’t work.
“What’s that one again?” she asked, pointing at the photo.
I rattled off the code and she typed it in, opening the spreadsheet. A bunch of numbers sprung to life.
