I froze. "I gave him the hard drive from the DVR lockbox. He smashed it."
"He smashed the storage carriage," Walter corrected, his voice steady. "But I watched your hands when you came out of that hallway. You were protecting your chest. You exported a copy before he walked in. Did you clear the system interface monitor before you pulled the drive?"
My stomach dropped. I pictured the gray interface box. The moment the green loading bar hit one hundred percent, I had ripped the USB out just as Hollister opened the door. I hadn't closed the window.
"No," I breathed.
"Hollister is arrogant, but his deputies aren't stupid," Walter said calmly. "When he gets back to the station, he's going to realize his exposure. He'll send someone back for the physical DVR box. The moment they plug it in, the system monitor will display the last action performed."
I turned and sprinted through the swinging doors into the cramped back office. My hands were sweating so badly the computer mouse slipped out of my grip. I grabbed it again and shook it to wake the screen. The dusty monitor flickered to life.
Walter was exactly right. Dead center on the display, a white dialogue box sat open.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: Video Exported to External USB Device. Timestamp: 06:18 AM. Status: Successful.
I clicked the small 'X' to close it, but a secondary prompt immediately flashed onto the screen.
ADMINISTRATOR PASSWORD REQUIRED TO CLEAR SYSTEM LOGS.
I stared at the flashing cursor. My late husband, David, had set the system up five years ago. I had absolutely no idea what password he had used. I typed his birthday. Incorrect. I typed our anniversary. Incorrect. I typed my own name, pounding the enter key after every failed attempt, the mechanical clack echoing loudly in the small room. Incorrect.
The system was impenetrable. The evidence of my defiance was locked onto the screen. The lie I had told Hollister was already unraveling.
I returned to the main dining room. Walter was standing. His military phone was dark, the connection closed.
"It's locked," I told him, my voice shaking. "I can't erase the log. Hollister will know."
Walter nodded. "My transport is twenty minutes away. We need to leave this building. Now."
Before I could process his instruction, the heavy crunch of tires on gravel echoed outside. A white county public works truck pulled diagonally across the entrance, effectively blocking the highway exit. Two men stepped out and began dropping bright orange traffic cones. A moment later, Deputy Miller's cruiser rolled up behind them, his lightbar flashing silently.
They were sealing us in. Miller stepped out carrying a heavy red crowbar and a black canvas tool bag. He had come back for the surveillance equipment.
"If they find that drive on you, they will arrest you for tampering with evidence," Walter said, moving toward the kitchen hallway. "You can surrender the drive right now and beg for mercy, or you can walk out the back door with me."
I looked at the booths where my regulars had sat for years, the worn laminate counter where I had poured thousands of cups of coffee, and the framed photo of David next to the register. This place was my entire life. It was the only thing David had left me. If I ran out the back door, I was abandoning my property to a corrupt sheriff who would tear the walls apart. I would lose everything.