“I have proof.” Barbara’s voice cracks but she lifts her chin. “Proof that he never intended on giving Henley the credit she deserves, and, in fact, that he’s been taking her ideas and passing them off as his own for years. The direct call campaign for British Columbia, the monthly wildlife spotlight on our blog, and the Snapchat marketing plan from the last board meeting—all originally Henley’s ideas.”

Marlen’s deep brown eyes nearly pop out of his head.

“And Henley’s not the only one. Do you remember Samantha Charles, the marketing manager for North and Central America before Henley? The one who left after four years to take a position with Wild Wonders, our biggest competitor?”

“I do,” says Marlen.

“I haven’t had time to investigate thoroughly, but I began digging through some old emails, and there’s evidence James co-opted her ideas as well. Both smart, hardworking young women with big ideas and even bigger dreams. I just wish I would have realized it sooner. But I never had reason to suspect…” Her voice cracks.

“It’s not your fault,” I murmur.

She flashes me a small, heartfelt smile before handing Marlen a black thumb drive. “It’s all here.”

Marlen takes the thumb drive with a curt nod, plugs it into his computer, and begins clicking.

I stand there, not looking at the others, barely daring to breathe. The clock on the wall ticks. Tory’s leather loafers squeak as she shifts her weight. Graeme goes very still beside me. A bead of sweat forms between my shoulder blades. I swallow.

With every click, Marlen’s expression grows darker, more thunderous. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he shoves to his feet and strides to the massive bank of windows that make up an entire wall of his office.

“James has worked for this company for nearly two decades,” he says, clasping his hands behind his back. “He started under the previous owner as the print marketing director. I promoted him to chief marketing officer eight years ago because his ideas were on point and cutting-edge, and he seemed to be taking the company’s marketing program in the right direction. I had no idea he was stepping on other people’s backs to do it.” Dipping his chin, he shakes his head slowly and returns to his desk.

Picking up the framed photo of his daughter, he runs his thumb over the glass. When he sets it down, he splays his palms on the desk and looks me dead in the eye.

“I know exactly how to handle this.”

30

Are you nervous?” asks Walsh nearly an hour later. She’s wearing a pair of neon-green flip-flops she’s procured from God knows where.

I snap my laptop shut and rub my temples. “Ask me after.”

“We got your back,” she says.

I bump her with my shoulder. “I know you do.”