Her pulse hadn't slowed. Isabelle sat frozen for a heartbeat, staring at the spreadsheet as though willing the numbers to rearrange themselves into something more sensible.
Robert Blake. 8:46 p.m.
She reread it. Closed the attachment, reopened it, triple-checked. The timestamp didn't lie.
Her mind raced. She forced herself to breathe, to slow down. Panic would get her nowhere.
She needed proof.
Not accusations.
Not confrontations.
Proof.
She looked around the office. Most of the floor was empty now; the last cleaning crew had finished. The hum of the ventilation was the only sound. Isabelle had to act quickly before the staff returned.
First, she examined her pen camera. It had survived the night unbothered — no one had noticed it among the other pens. That meant her next step had to be subtle. The camera alone wouldn't catch someone walking in and using a keycard. She needed to monitor movement to see if anyone came near her desk after hours.
Her fingers moved deftly, opening a note on her phone she started typing.
List of potential suspects:
Cleaners — unlikely; low-level access. Barely speak English.
IT staff — possible, but unlikely to risk being caught.
Maintenance — maybe, but would need reason.
Robert — now, very suspicious.
She hesitated at the last name. Could Robert have really accessed her floor? Why?
Her mind raced with possibilities. Maybe he had legitimate reason; auditing, security checks, oversight. Or maybe; she pushed the thought aside before it spiraled, but maybe he wasn't so innocent.
She had to find out.
The first step was simple: confirming whether the spreadsheet was correct. She checked the security log for unusual card access. Usually, the security system printed a small entry with name, time, and card ID.
She called the security office under the guise of verifying a routine report.
"Hi, this is Isabelle Cole. I'm checking the executive floor logs; the after-hours entries. I just want to ensure the data's complete."
The guard, a bored-sounding man in his fifties, muttered, "Yeah, yeah. Give me a sec."
A few minutes later, he read her the entries. Isabelle's ears perked up when he said, "8:46 p.m., Blake, Robert. Executive access, swipe verified. No alarms triggered."
Her stomach sank. The data matched.
"Thank you," she said smoothly, hiding the tension in her voice.
Now, she needed context. She couldn't confront him. Not yet. Not without further evidence. But she could test him.
She spent the next hour creating a small digital decoy: a document that looked like a routine PR briefing, but contained nothing of real importance. She saved it under a slightly altered filename from the usual ones she monitored.
If Robert was checking her folders for something mundane, he might click on it. If he wasn't, she'd have narrowed her suspects further.
Next, she prepared a subtle trap for anyone else who might tamper with her work. She left a small note beside her computer:
Documents for 10.30am meeting.
It was mundane enough to not raise suspicion, but she hoped curiosity or opportunism would do the rest.
She leaned back, trying to steady her breathing. Every glance toward Robert's office made her stomach tighten. He wasn't at his desk now; he was still speaking to Richard. They were discussing the event, laughing lightly. Isabelle noted how relaxed Robert seemed, completely at ease. No sign of guilt.
And yet.
The thought wouldn't leave her.
He could have accessed her desk. And if he did… why?
She tried to push it aside, focusing on the methodical steps of her plan.
1. Confirm spreadsheet entries — done.
2. Set decoy document — done.
3. Pen camera — in place.
4. Request updated access logs for the coming week — done.
She exhaled slowly. She was being methodical. Rational. Logical. Not paranoid.
By mid-afternoon, her nerves had settled enough to concentrate on real work. She replied to emails, drafted reports, and checked the briefing materials for Richard's upcoming meetings. The pen camera sat innocuously among the others, a silent sentinel.
Still, she couldn't resist glancing at the spreadsheet every so often, double-checking the numbers, replaying the moment she'd first seen Robert's name on the after-hours access.
Could he be innocent?
Or had he been the one intruding all along?
Her instincts screamed at her not to trust him completely. He had seemed almost too calm when she'd found the plant knocked over. Too ready with advice about monitoring her desk. Almost as if he knew she was trying to catch someone.
Her eyes flicked toward the corner where his office's glass wall caught the sunlight. Robert was still inside, on a call. Calm, composed, and unreadable.
The end of the day approached. Isabelle's heart pounded with quiet dread. She had set the traps, laid the decoys, and now she had only to wait for the next signal; the next small breach.
She glanced at the pen camera. Motion-sensitive, charged, and ready. Every movement near her desk after hours would be recorded. She checked the backup flash drive in her drawer; ready to secure the decoy and any evidence she could gather.
As the clock ticked toward 6 p.m., Isabelle began to feel the tension coiling in her chest. She had no idea what she would find when she returned the next day.
And yet, a part of her couldn't stop imagining it: the moment she caught the saboteur, whoever it might be, in the act.
Even if it turned out to be Robert.
She shook the thought from her head, but not entirely. She couldn't deny that the possibility lingered in her mind like a shadow at the edge of her vision.
For now, she packed her bag, retrieved her coat, and stepped into the drizzle outside. The streets of London were slick and shiny under the evening lights, the hum of buses and Underground trains filling the air.
She moved through the crowd, careful to keep her thoughts in check. A stranger brushed against her shoulder on the Northern Line — just another jostle in the press of bodies. She moved away without a word, dismissing it as nothing.
But inside, her mind was a whirl of suspicion, strategy, and silent calculation.
By tomorrow, she would know more.
By tomorrow, someone would slip.
And when they did… she would be ready.