Mr. Calloway asked me to meet him at his office within the hour. I drove there with my laptop and Grandma Ruth’s blue mug still rattling in the cup holder. He closed the door and slid a folder across his desk. “Three weeks ago, Garrett handed me drawings for the Harbor Point clinic,” he said. “He called them his own.” I opened the folder, and my stomach dropped. Every page carried my professional stamp number.

“I recognized your name from his post,” he said quietly. “Then I recognized your line work from the design conference last spring.” He turned his monitor toward me. Invoices filled the screen, billing forty thousand dollars to a firm I had never heard of. Then his voice dropped. “Elise, the signature authorizing these payments is yours. Except you never signed anything.” Behind me, the office door opened.