The lunch date with Dominic unleashes a torrent of text messages that last all weekend—the kind of questions I would have asked a high school boyfriend, my heart beating fast awaiting every answer. We trade them in rapid-fire bursts, though he doesn’t suggest another date—not yet. I get the impression we’re sandwiched between playing the anticipation game and getting serious, and I can’t get enough of it.

But I cut myself off at intervals during the day, because the weekend is my best shot at finding out what Mr. Overhiser is really up to.

I send some of the data to the team at FBI headquarters, but I sift through the rest myself. Someone else might not understand everything that’s being discussed in these messages, and I want to nail this. I scour hundreds of emails and flip through log after log of websites pulled from his browser—even those he deleted—looking for any connection to someone outside the company, any information being exchanged with a person who shouldn’t have access.

It’s a little like being in the Executive Support Department again, only I’m doing it in sweatpants and running clothes, allowing myself breaks only to eat and run through Central Park when I’m feeling at the end of my rope.

What’s your favorite color?

The message from Dominic comes in while I’m eating a bowl of Lucky Charms over the sink. I crave them when I’m in the middle of time-intensive projects, and this one definitely qualifies.

I don’t want to say…

I’m not really embarrassed about it, but when I’m not up to my eyeballs in an old man’s emails, I’m letting myself get swept along by the open, flirty tone of the texts. I’m bathing in it, basking in it. The only thing that could be better would be to whisper these questions directly into Dominic’s ear.

Are you…are you serious?

There’s something about his personality via text that makes me like him. I was attracted to him the moment I saw him, even though I knew it was a mistake, and the way I feel when the sensation of his hands on my body comes to mind. Through the phone, I’m seeing his playful side, and I really, really like it. I like him.

I’m serious.

My playful side can’t be contained with an iPhone in my hands, either.

Is it something disgusting? Like the color of rotten eggs?

Aren’t rotten eggs yellow?

Green, too, probably. Not that I’ve ever seen any.

It’s pink.

There’s a long pause, so long it has to be purposeful.

Pink.

Yes.

Your favorite color is pink?

Sue me. No, don’t…I can’t afford a good lawyer!

Mine is purple.

I pause for exactly as long as it takes to send back five emojis that look like they’re laughing hysterically. He doesn’t answer.

You’re serious?? Dominic Wilder’s favorite color is purple?

I’ll buy you a thousand purple dresses to prove it.

That doesn’t prove anything…but I’ll take the dresses.

Is your closet big enough?

Could you send a closet along with them?

Your wish is my command, sweet thing.

Heat comes to my cheeks at the phrase, and I put the phone down, finishing the last of the cereal in my bowl. Lucky Charms are amazing. I don’t know why I deny myself this small pleasure except during times of stress. Maybe I should stop. Denying myself pleasure, even when it’s risky as hell, has not been my number one priority lately.

I rinse the bowl in the sink, looking over at the phone every few moments to see if Dominic has anything else to say, but it looks like we’re entering a lull.

Which is convenient because I need a shower.

I ran a hard six miles in Central Park before I ate the cereal, and my clothes are clinging to my skin. I strip them off and toss them into the laundry hamper in the bathroom, jump into the shower, and try to push Dominic out of my mind.

What am I missing when it comes to Overhiser?

After the shower, I spend another two hours in front of my computer, coming up empty-handed.

I pop up a bowl of popcorn, grab a bottle of wine and a glass, and then stew on my couch for the rest of the evening, until, at last, as I’m falling asleep, I come up with another plan.

I get to the office early on Monday morning, careful to arrange my face into a bit of a grimace, and hustle to my desk. The computer starts up with a hum, and as soon as I’ve signed in, I put a flash drive into one of the ports. It’s a different flash drive than I used on Overhiser’s machine—this one carefully marked with a red star on the side—and it breaks my computer.

I let out a heavy sigh, dropping the flash drive back in my purse and putting the purse in my bottom drawer, which I lock before stalking back down the hall to the elevator.

Tech Support is housed in the basement, which is no surprise. It’s the easiest space to control the temperature, and Wilder Enterprises, of course, has more than a few internal servers to power the company. Not that I’m an expert. I know enough to be dangerous, and hopefully bail myself out of what’s quickly coming to seem like a dead end.

At first, when I step off the elevator at Basement Level 1, I think it’s empty. The silence is heavy, broken only by the whir of the stacks of servers positioned against one wall. There isn’t a single light turned on in any of the offices along the other wall, and I let out a little sigh, ready to turn around and head back up to my floor.

I’m about to turn for the elevator when there’s movement at one of the doors. A figure appears out of the dark, and I stifle a gasp.

“Oh, my God,” the man says, a shadow falling over his face. “I’m—I’m sorry. Can I help you?”

My heart is pounding in my chest. Why the hell is he down here with no lights on? His hands are full of the kinds of blue folders we use up on the executive level.

“I’m Vivienne Davis,” I say, trying to steady myself on the sound of my own voice. “My—my computer is having some kind of problem, and I was wondering if you could check it out from here…”

I want to look over his shoulder while he signs in, but this guy is going to be a miss—I can already tell. He shifts the folders in his hands. “I can come up in a few minutes and look. That’s—that’s usually the first step,” he says. I can’t quite see his eyes, and it’s unsettling as hell to me.

“Okay. Thanks. I’m working for Mr. Overhiser.” I finish it off with a little laugh, like this whole thing is a little absurd, but the sound falls into more silence.

“I’ll be there.”

I turn on my heel and go.