Free Need to Know by Karen Cleveland Page B

like none of this ever happened. Exactly what I wanted, right?
    My breathing starts again, quick little bursts of air. I guide the cursor up to the button at the top of the screen. Passive. I click, and the border turns red.
    And the folder’s still gone.
    I continue to stare at the place where it should be, where it just was. Same blue bubbles in the background, one less icon in the last row. I hear a phone ring a few rows away. Typing from nearby keyboards; the strains of an anchor on a twenty-four-hour news channel, one of the televisions suspended from the ceiling.
    Oh God, what did I just do? Panic courses through me. I deleted files from a target’s computer. Switching to Active mode, stepping into operational territory—that alone would be enough to get me fired. What was I thinking?
    My gaze drifts up to the top left corner, the familiar icon, the recycle symbol. It’s in that bin, isn’t it? I didn’t get rid of it, not all the way. I double-click the icon, and there it is.
Friends.
The file.
    I look at the buttons again. Active. Passive. I could restore it, pretend none of this ever happened. Or I could delete it altogether, follow through with what I started. Either way, I need to do something. It can’t just sit there.
    Delete it altogether. That’s what I want to do, what I need to do. There’s a reason I did it in the first place. Protecting Matt, my family. I glance behind me; no one there. Then I click the Active button
,
move the cursor, click Delete, switch back to Passive mode an instant later.
    Gone. I stare at the empty bin and rack my brain, trying to remember what I know about deleting files. It’s still there, somewhere. Data-recovery software could retrieve it. I’ll need something to overwrite it. Something like—
    There’s a ding, and a small white box pops up in the center of my screen. I seize with fear. This is it, some sign that I’ve been caught, discovered. But it’s Peter’s face in the little box, words he typed:
Come on over.
    I go weak. It’s just Peter. I forgot I even asked to meet with him. I close out the box and lock my computer, my hands shaking. Then I walk toward his office.
    What am I going to say? I replay the last conversation in my mind.
I need to talk with you about something. In private.
Oh, this is bad. What on earth am I going to say?
    His door is open a crack. I see him at his computer, his back to me. I give a quick rap on the door, and he swivels his chair around to face me. “Come on in.”
    I push the door open. His office is tiny—all of them are—just his desk, modular and gray like mine, and a small round table, overloaded with stacks of papers. I sit in the chair beside it.
    He crosses his legs at the ankles, peers at me over the top of his glasses. I can tell he’s waiting for me to speak. My mouth feels dry. Shouldn’t I have figured out what I was going to say before I came in here? I rack my brain. What do people tell their bosses in private?
    “What’s going on?” he finally asks.
    I can taste the words I should say. The ones that were running through my head all morning.
I found a picture of my husband.
But it’s too late for them now, even if I could force them out of my mouth.
    I look at the maps that cover the walls. Big ones of Russia. Political maps, road maps, topography maps. My gaze settles on the largest one, the contours of the country. I zero in on the sliver of land between Ukraine and Kazakhstan. Volgograd.
    “There’s a family issue,” I say. I can just barely make out the letters on the map. I don’t know where I’m going with this. I don’t have a plan.
    He exhales softly. “Oh, Vivian.” When I look over, his eyes are full of concern, sympathy. “I understand.”
    It takes a moment for what he’s saying to register, and when it does, guilt washes over me. I look behind him to the framed pictures on his desk. All of the same woman. A yellowed picture of her in a white lace dress. A candid shot of her opening