Inside that cramped, run-down conference room, the wave of accusations against me crested to its peak.
Mr. Greyson had made up his mind.
He sucked in a sharp breath and roared, "Everybody shut the hell up!"
The room went dead silent.
Mr. Greyson snatched up his phone, his thumb slamming down on three digits: 9-1-1.
He deliberately switched it to speakerphone and set the phone in the exact center of the table.
On the video call, Hope leaned forward, her eyes blazing with barely contained glee.
Dennis clenched his fists. Every person in the company held their breath.
The call connected.
"911, what's your emergency?"
The dispatcher's voice had barely filled the room when—
BANG.
The office door flew open, kicked in from the outside.
Every head in the room whipped around.
The evening sun stretched my shadow long across the floor.
I swept my gaze over Hope on the big screen, then let it settle on Mr. Greyson's frozen face, phone still clutched in his hand.
A thin, mocking smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.
"Mr. Greyson. I hear you're calling the cops on me?"
