A portable card skimmer.
Henry sank back into his chair.
“Oh, Lord.”
Amber whispered, “How long?”
Nobody answered.
The first patrol car arrived six minutes later.
Then another.
Officers separated us.
They took statements.
They photographed the device.
They asked Kyle to open his office.
He refused.
That was his second mistake.
The lease, business registration, and employment documents all showed that I owned Rosie’s.
The office was part of my business.
I gave permission.
An officer opened the door.
At first, nothing looked unusual.
Desk.
Computer.
File cabinet.
Safe.
Then Amber pointed beneath the bottom shelf.
“What’s that?”
A plastic storage bin.
The officer pulled it out.
Inside were stacks of paper.
Receipts.
Photocopies of driver’s licenses.
Handwritten card numbers.
Dozens of them.
Maybe hundreds.
And beside them was a notebook.
Each page contained customer names.
Dates.
Amounts.
Some names I recognized.
Regulars.
Elderly customers.
Tourists.
People who had complained.
