I looked at Dolores, then at Grant, and I opened my bag. “My answer is not about money,” I said. I laid a thin blue folder on the hallway bench between us. Grant frowned. “What is that?” Dolores reached for it, but I rested my hand on the cover. “Seven years of signed records, and one agreement your own lawyer drafted.” Her face went pale. “What agreement?”

I opened the folder to page four. The calibration engine that kept their sensors alive had never been sold to the company, only licensed, and the license ended the moment anyone changed it without my approval. Grant’s mouth fell open. Behind him, the elevator chimed, and a man in a gray suit stepped out holding a thick envelope. He looked straight at me and said, “Imogen, I have been searching for you for two weeks.”