18. Kyle The Real Enemy Revealed
Kyle: The Real Enemy Revealed
The moment I insert the USB into my laptop, the screen flickers. A single folder appears, labeled with nothing but a string of numbers.
Daniel leans forward. “That’s it? No message, no sender?”
I shake my head. “Let’s see what’s inside.”
I double-click the folder. Instead of opening, a password prompt pops up.
Daniel lets out a low whistle. “Encrypted.”
I exhale sharply and rub my temples. “Of course it is.”
Daniel crosses his arms, studying the screen. “And I guess now we know why this was on my desk and not yours, even though it had your name on it.” His lips quirk slightly. “Someone knew you wouldn’t be able to open it.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “And you can?”
Daniel shrugs, but there’s an unmistakable gleam of confidence in his eyes. “Let’s just say . . . I know my way around these things.”
I push back my chair and gesture toward the laptop. “Then do your thing.”
He cracks his knuckles and takes my seat. “Give me a few minutes.”
I pace the office, my fists clenching and unclenching as Daniel types, his brows furrowing in concentration.
“This is tougher than I expected,” he mutters.
I stop pacing. “Can you crack it?”
“I can try, but it’s not instant,” he says, fingers flying across the keyboard. “I need admin access—or time.”
“We don’t have time,” I say through gritted teeth.
Daniel exhales, thinking. “There’s a backdoor I can use, but it’ll take some digging.”
A long, tense silence stretches. Then, finally—
“I’m in,” Daniel announces, a mix of relief and triumph in his voice.
I turn around quickly. “That fast?”
He smirks. “You underestimate me, my friend.”
The folder unlocks, revealing a series of files—images, emails, videos.
I step closer as Daniel clicks on the first one.
A picture pops up on the screen.
It’s me and Leslie in my office.
I recognize the moment instantly. The tension in the way we’re standing—me by my desk, her across from me, arms crossed, her lips slightly parted. The way my gaze is locked on her.
It was one of our heated arguments.
Another click, and a second image loads.
Leslie sitting in my spot at that café. That damn smirk on her face as she sips her coffee.
Then another.
Me alone, staring out my office window, deep in thought.
Leslie alone, gripping the steering wheel of her car, her face turned away.
And then—
A video.
The moment I kissed Leslie at the awards night.
Daniel lets out a low curse. “Damn. They really had eyes on you two.”
A tight knot forms in my stomach. I shift my gaze back to the screen, my mind running through the images again, this time with more scrutiny.
Something feels . . . off.
I stare at the angle of the office picture—the way it’s framed, slightly tilted, almost too perfectly positioned to capture Leslie and me in the same shot.
A slow dread creeps in.
That angle.
That damn angle.
I step closer to the screen, my eyes narrowing. The picture wasn’t taken from the doorway. It wasn’t snapped by someone peeking through the blinds.
It was inside the room.
I flick to the next image. My office window. The lighting. The composition.
No.
I know that exact perspective.
A realization slams into me.
There’s a camera in my office.
My jaw tightens as I quickly scan the space around me, my mind calculating possible placements. My desk is against the wall, meaning the shots weren’t taken from behind me. The angle suggests elevation, a subtle downward tilt—
My eyes lift to the bookshelf across the room.
I move without thinking, my pulse pounding as I cross the space in three strides. I scan the shelf, my fingers brushing over the spines of books, the row of awards—
And then I see it.
A tiny, almost imperceptible black dot nestled between two books. No larger than a pinhole.
I freeze. It’s there.
A hidden camera.
A sharp, ice-cold rage seeps through my veins.
“Daniel.” My voice is tight, controlled.
He glances up from the laptop. “What?”
I don’t speak. I just point.
His brows knit together as he follows my gaze. When he spots it, he exhales sharply. “Holy shit.”
I don’t hesitate. I reach up, grip the edge of the shelf, and rip the camera from its place.
A thin wire trails from the back, disappearing into the wall.
I fist the device in my palm, my jaw clenching so hard it hurts.
Someone put a goddamn camera in my office.
Someone has been watching me. Watching us.
Before I can process the sickening weight of that, Daniel clicks into another folder—emails.
My breath stills as I read the subject lines.
Edited Emails.
Screenshots.
The same ones they used to frame Leslie—the ones that made it look like she was feeding Anthony Reeves information.
Daniel scrolls through them, and my stomach twists.
The edits are subtle. A few words shifted. Timestamps manipulated. Just enough to make it seem real.
Carefully done. Designed to destroy her.
Then—
Daniel pauses.
One screenshot stands out.
His finger hovers over it. "Kyle," he says, voice tight. "Look at this."
I step closer.
The email chain is real—but it’s not Leslie’s name at the top.
It’s Amanda’s.
My blood turns ice cold.
Daniel clicks it open.
Amanda: Did you call her?
Anthony: Yes. She’s coming. I told her I have information. She thinks I want to help her clear her name.
Amanda: Good. Make sure you leave the diner with her. I’ll take care of the rest.
A sharp, pulsing rage explodes in my chest.
This wasn’t just about setting Leslie up.
This was a trap.
I grip the edge of my desk, my knuckles turning white.
Amanda.
It was her.
All this time, I’d been looking at Leslie—doubting her—when the real snake was right under my nose.
Daniel exhales sharply. “This is crazy.”
I clench my jaw. “Sharon.”
My voice is steady, sharp. An order.
Within seconds, my office door swings open. Sharon steps in. “Yes, sir?”
I don’t look away from the screen. “Go check if Amanda is still in the office.”
She hesitates. “I just saw her leave a few minutes ago.”
My hands curl into fists. Of course she did.
Daniel leans back, exhaling. “You think she ran?”
“She knows we’re on to her.”
A beat of silence. Daniel gestures at the screen. “Do we keep looking?”
I nod.
We scroll through the emails, scanning fast, searching for something—anything—to prove she set Leslie up.
But there’s nothing else.
I rake a hand through my hair, frustration crawling under my skin.
Did we miss something? Did she cover her tracks that well?
Or—
I exhale sharply, shoving that thought aside.
I grab my phone and call Leslie.
The line rings. Once. Twice.
She doesn’t pick up.
I try again.
Nothing.
A dull ache settles in my chest.
She doesn’t want to hear from me.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t blame her.
***
The next morning, I sit behind my desk, my mind still racing. The pieces are falling into place, but the picture they form is worse than I expected.
I pick up the office phone and press the intercom. “Sharon, call Amanda to my office. Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Minutes later, Amanda steps in, composed as always. “Good morning, sir. You asked to see me?”
I motion toward the chair. “Have a seat.”
She hesitates, then lowers herself onto the chair, smoothing her skirt. “Is there a problem?”
I study her for a moment, then open my drawer and pull out a small black device. A hidden camera. I set it on the desk between us.
Her expression remains neutral. “What’s that?”
I lean forward. “A camera. Found in my office yesterday.” I let the words settle before continuing. “Someone has been watching me. And I think the same person is watching Leslie too.”
A flicker of something passes through her eyes. Barely noticeable, but I don’t miss it.
I reach into my drawer again and pull out a small USB drive, turning it over between my fingers. Then, I set it down on the desk between us.
“Someone dropped this on Daniel’s desk last night.” My voice is calm, deliberate. “After he locked up and left.”
Amanda doesn’t flinch. “I’m not on the security team. Why are you showing me this?”
I lean forward. “Because you are the chief tech specialist.” I tap the USB. “And from where I’m sitting, everything in here has your name all over it.”
She lets out a soft scoff. “That’s a reach. Just because I’m in charge of the tech department doesn’t mean I’m responsible for every suspicious file in the company.” She folds her arms. “Anyone could have planted that.”
I hold her gaze. “True. But not anyone would have access to employees' emails, the right timestamps, the right phrasing, the right images to make this look real.” I plug the USB into my laptop and click through the files again.
Screenshots of emails—altered to frame Leslie. Images of me and Leslie together. The video. And then, finally, the email conversation between her and Anthony Reeves.
I turn the laptop toward her. “You care to explain this?”
Her lips press together briefly before she speaks.
Then, instead of looking rattled, she leans forward and clicks through the files, her expression unreadable.
“You’re asking me to explain this?” She lets out a dry laugh and shakes her head.
“What if it’s Leslie? Ever thought about that?
” She gestures at the screen. “What if she planted all this to cover up her own tracks?”
My patience snaps.
I slam the laptop shut. “Are you serious right now?” I lean in, my voice dropping.
“Leslie didn’t break into Daniel’s office to drop this damn USB on his desk after he locked up.
She had already left the building. Leslie cannot manipulate timestamps and edit emails to frame herself. But it's what you can do.”
Amanda exhales sharply, but I catch the flicker of something in her eyes. Something like calculation.