He couldn’t figure it out. He’d been careful. Beyond careful. He’d left his apartment at different times each day. He’d taken varying routes. His meetings with his contacts had been quick and discreet, the notes and thumb drives tucked in a slim, black bag identical to the one he exchanged with his contacts. He’d even found a nondescript shop at which to meet each one. The shop was nothing, really. It sold scented candles with names like Cozy Evening and Misty Rain. Along the wall were two shelves of used books for sale. Garden art items were tagged to sell quickly. And it sold teas made of herbs, flowers, and mushrooms, with curious names like Meetme, Gotcha, and Moribund. There were other names, too. He’d read them often during meetings at which no word was spoken and a hand-off was imperceptible. Rosalie and Mill Stream were two other names he recalled. The rest scattered from his memory just now; not that it mattered.

The shopkeeper sat the back of the shop with a cup of tea and a book. Always the same teapot, sometimes a different book. Whenever he entered, she’d barely raise her eyes other than to acknowledge him. One time she startled him by asking if she could help him, but he pretended to browse, and shook his head. Foolish woman, he thought – with nothing to do but sit all day hoping to sell a dollar’s worth of goods. He wondered how she made enough to live. She fit the shop perfectly.

But the game was up now. He’d been discovered, along with notes he’d copied and quietly shared. It wasn’t actually embezzlement, he’d reasoned, because business ideas were fair game. How could they be trade secrets when they were no longer secret? He’d quietly laughed over that joke. It was worth it. They were paying him enough to buy a country house and take an island vacation.

Someone higher up had somehow gotten wind of the scheme, though, and just when he and his associates were patting themselves on the back, they’d been yanked up short. He sat in his office, wondering if his future held anything worth salvaging and waiting for his lawyer to get him out of this mess.

“Mr. Stears sent me to ask if you would like anything,” his secretary looked both sorry and scared.

He looked up briefly.

“Here. He left this for me this morning. It’s pretty good. Why don’t you try it?”

She offered a cup of tea, the bag still steeping.

He took it and she left. He set it down, pulled the tea bag from the cup, and glanced at the saucer. Then he froze.

A familiar voice floated down the hall. “Thank you again, Rosalie. I don’t know what we’d do without you. Here’s your check. You take that long vacation you’ve been promising yourself.”

His eyes drifted down to the tiny tea tag labeled simply: Gotcha.

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