The folder opened with a dry snap.
The second photograph showed my sister sitting beside the window of our neighborhood café.
Her blue backpack rested between her shoes.
She was laughing at something on her phone, completely unaware of the man reflected in the glass behind her.
He wore a gray coat and held a folded newspaper, but his eyes were not on the page.
They were fixed on her.
A time stamp in the corner showed the photograph had been taken forty-three minutes earlier.
My knees weakened, but I caught the edge of Dante’s desk before I fell.
The voice on his phone continued speaking.
Low.
Urgent.
I could not make out every word, only fragments.
Gray coat.
Still outside.
Waiting for instructions.
Dante ended the call and pressed another button.
“Bring the car to the private entrance,” he said.
“Two teams.
No visible weapons near the girl.”
He hung up.
I stared at him.
“Who was that?”
“The man keeping your sister alive.”
The words struck harder than a threat.
I snatched the photographs from the folder.
Beneath them were copies of corporate registrations, bank transfers, a printed email offering me the marketing position, and a grainy picture of the man who had interviewed me in a polished downtown office.
His real name had been written beneath the photograph.
I did not recognize it.
Beside it, in Dante’s handwriting, were four words.
Works for our enemy.
“No,” I whispered.
Dante remained across the desk, giving me space now.
“The marketing firm did not exist two weeks ago.
The office was rented for one month.
The recruiter’s credentials were fabricated.
Every client listed on its website leads back to the same holding company.”
My eyes moved over the papers, searching for an error that would restore the world I had believed in that morning.
There was none.
“They contacted me because of my résumé.”
“They contacted you because of mine.”
I looked up.
Dante’s expression was controlled again, but his right hand had curled into a fist.
“They want access to my calendar, my calls, and the people who come through this office,” he said.
“They assumed you would take copies before you left.
If you refused, they planned to use your sister as leverage.”
The room tilted.
I thought of the cheerful recruiter who had admired my organizational skills.
The clean conference table.
The bowl of wrapped candies.
The casual question about whether my family lived nearby.
I had answered him.
I had told him which school my sister attended because he claimed the company sponsored a scholarship program.
My stomach turned.
“I gave them her name.”
“You had no reason to know.”
“I gave them her school.”
