Caught Red-Handed
THE SECURITY CAMERAS CAUGHT ME REACHING FOR THE USB DRIVE IN HIS DESK
My heart slammed against my ribs when the office manager’s voice crackled over the intercom, demanding I come to his office immediately.
The air conditioning felt like ice on my skin as I walked down the long, empty hallway towards his door, every step echoing too loudly. Dust motes danced in the sharp beams of light from the ceiling tiles, and the fluorescent lamps hummed a low, maddening buzz above me.
He sat behind his enormous mahogany desk, looking smaller than usual, just tapping a pen against a stack of papers without looking up. He gestured vaguely at the cheap plastic chair opposite him when I came in, and the silence stretched, thick and suffocating around us.
“You know why you’re here,” he finally said, his voice flat, like chipped ice, his eyes still fixed on the desk. My hands felt clammy on the arms of the chair, the rough plastic digging into my palms, and I could only manage a small, strangled sound.
He finally looked up then, his eyes sharp and cold, and a faint, expensive scent of his cologne filled the air. “You think I don’t see *everything*?” A sudden, loud knock on the door startled us both, making him jump. It swung open before he could even answer.
The security guard wasn’t there to escort me out; he was carrying something heavy wrapped in plastic.
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