OLIVER
Anny waits until the car door closes before speaking.
“You lied to me.”
There is no anger in her voice. Anger would be easier.
“I did.”
“You promised you wouldn’t.”
“I know.”
She holds the black envelope against her chest for the entire drive home. I do not ask her to forgive the lie or accept fear as an excuse.
In the study, Anny takes the letter opener from my desk and breaks the seal.
The only thing inside is a photograph.
It shows us beneath the old oak, my hand at her waist and her mouth against mine. The image came from the garden camera during the two minutes our security feed displayed an empty lawn.
On the back, three lines have been printed in black.
FIRST BREACH VERIFIED.
RETURN APPENDIX A.
OR THE BOARD RECEIVES PROOF.
“Seventeen seconds,” Anny says. “Th
