I rushed to my computer, my fingers trembling as I opened my inbox. The clock on my screen read 2:04 PM.
At exactly 2:05 PM, a new email notification popped up from an anonymous encrypted address. The subject line read simply: “The Price of Your Silence.”
I clicked it open. Inside was a scanned document from four years ago, bearing the official letterhead of my current employer—the financial firm where I worked as a coordinator. It was an internal compliance authorization form regarding a major offshore account audit I had overseen the previous year.
At the bottom of the form, under the section marked “Confidentiality and Non-Disclosure Agreement,” there was an addendum.
It detailed an unauthorized transfer of proprietary analytical data to an external consultant—a massive breach of federal financial regulations that would not only cost me my license but could result in federal prison time for corporate espionage.
And there, at the bottom of that compliance form, was my actual, real, unmistakable signature. Not a forgery. My sharp, rigid ‘G’ with the crossbar.
Attached was a short note from Mariela:
“Remember when you left your work laptop open at the cabin during Thanksgiving four years ago, Gaby? Remember when you asked me to print out some compliance files for you because you were too tired? I kept a copy of the ones you signed off on. I didn’t understand what they meant then, but my lawyer certainly does now. If the Attorney General gets my file, the SEC gets yours. Let’s see who survives the fall.”
I stared at the screen, the room spinning, the surgical scar on my head throbbing with a blinding, agonizing heat as the abyss opened beneath my feet.
