Not typed.

Handwritten.

Natalie.

I knew Rebecca’s handwriting.

This wasn’t it.

Price photographed everything before letting me touch it.

Inside were three things.

A printed bank statement.

A photograph.

And a note.

The statement showed a transfer from Brooks Design Studio.

$84,260.

Destination account partially redacted.

The photograph showed Rebecca sitting at a restaurant table.

Across from her was Eric.

The date stamp was eight months earlier.

The note contained one sentence.

ASK YOUR FATHER WHAT HE LEFT OUT OF THE LEDGER.

I read it twice.

Then a third time.

Price said, “Your father?”

“My father is dead.”

“How long?”

“Seven years.”

“What ledger?”

“I don’t know.”

That was not completely true.

My father, Martin Hayes, had been an accountant.

Not glamorous.

Not wealthy.

He wore the same three gray suits in rotation and believed restaurant menus should never use words like “deconstructed.”

He also documented everything.

When he died, he left me boxes.

Tax records.

Investment statements.

Insurance policies.

Household inventories.

And one leather-bound ledger he used for what he called “unfinished business.”

I had never opened it.

Not because he told me not to.

Because grief had turned certain objects into land mines.

His fountain pen.

His wristwatch.

The coffee mug that said NUMBERS DON’T LIE, PEOPLE DO.

The ledger was in my storage unit.

I knew exactly which box.

Price watched me.

“You know something.”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“My father kept a private ledger.”

“Where?”

“In storage.”

“Can we get it?”

I looked at the photograph of Rebecca and Eric.

“Yes.”

The ledger was not in the box.

The box was there.

The empty space where the ledger should have been was there.

The paper label in my father’s handwriting was there.

M.H. PERSONAL — DO NOT DISCARD

But the ledger was gone.

I stood between metal shelves under fluorescent light and felt something I had not felt when I discovered Eric’s affair.

Fear.

Not heartbreak.

Not anger.

Fear.

Someone had entered my storage unit.

Someone had known exactly what to take.

Price checked the lock.

No visible damage.

“Who has access?”

“Me.”

“Anyone else?”

I almost said no.

Then remembered.

“Eric had the spare key.”

Price nodded slowly.

“Of course he did.”

I sat on a plastic archive bin.

My legs had stopped cooperating.

“What does my father have to do with my company?”

Price crouched slightly so he could meet my eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“But Eric does.”

“Maybe.”

“And Rebecca.”

“Maybe.”

I stared at him.

“She wouldn’t steal from me.”

He did not answer.

“Rebecca has been with me for eight years.”

Still nothing.

“She’s my friend.”

Price’s expression softened.

“That does not make her guilty.”

I appreciated him for not saying the other half.

It also did not make her innocent.

My phone buzzed.

A text.

Unknown number.

STOP LOOKING FOR THE LEDGER.

Price took the phone.

Another message arrived.

THE HOUSE WAS NEVER THE ASSET.

My blood went cold.

Then a third.

YOUR COMPANY WAS.

By late afternoon, everything had changed.

The movers were finished.

The house was nearly empty.

The police had seized Eric’s personal laptop, two phones, a tablet, and several storage devices from his office.