I didn’t remember driving home.
My hands were still cold from the night air, from the panic of watching the hooded woman disappear between two rusted dumpsters like a hunted animal. The flash drive felt heavier than it should in my coat pocket, as if it carried a pulse, as if it knew exactly what I was about to find.
By the time I reached my apartment, my pulse had climbed into my throat. I locked the door, slid the chain, and for the first time in days, checked the windows. Every shadow looked wrong. Every silence felt staged.
I dropped my keys, sat on the edge of the dining table, and whispered to no one: “Okay. Let’s see what you risked your life to give me.”
The flash drive clicked into my laptop. A single folder appeared.
UNTITLED
My stomach tightened. I clicked. Dozens of subfo
