He picked his leather briefcase up off the concrete floor and set it on the wooden workbench beside a box of brass hinges.

“I’ll take care of them tomorrow morning,” I said.

He checked his watch, turned his back to me, and walked up the three wooden steps toward the kitchen pantry to answer a buzzing phone.

He left the brass latches of his briefcase open on the bench.

I crossed the cold concrete without a sound.

In the silk lining of the top divider lay a small blue flash drive stamped with the Mercer Ridge logo, right next to a folded card with his administrator passwords on it.

My hand stayed steady as I took my phone out of my cardigan pocket.