I asked Lucy to send me those documents. I’m pleased to see that she managed to find everything I needed and sent it in several emails so none of the attachments would be too large.

I download them all and start sorting the data, comparing it to my previous spreadsheet.

After a couple hours of intense comparison, I’m finally able to slip into that state of almost hypnotic focus, where the numbers seem to flow and float through my brain, rearranging themselves into patterns that seem to occur almost outside of my control, as if I’m watching what’s happening instead of actively organizing it.

Numbers have always had a particular personality to me. 6 is lucky, 7 is quixotic but powerful. 9 can be tricky. 2 is useful. 5 can always be depended on. I know this is irrational, but it’s a device that allows me to rearrange and memorize sequences of numbers as if they were people or objects, not just symbols.

I’m looking at the computer screen, but I’m seeing the flow of numerals in my brain. I’m watching them twist and reform in kaleidoscopic patterns. Until at last . . . at last . . . I see it.

I see the irregularity.

I see it, and I understand it.

I let out a long, slow breath.

“Motherfucker,” I whisper.

Josh Hale has been stealing from us. And not a little bit . . . a whole fucking lot.

When we had to purchase all that land for the South Shore Development, he duplicated some of the properties. He copied the purchase agreements almost exactly—omitting only a single number or letter per page. That way, the documents would look identical to the naked eye, but could be sorted into separate folders in the computer system.

But where did the money go? That’s the question.

The numbers all add up in the spreadsheet, with the duplicate properties removed.

Which means the money we paid for the properties is gone. Siphoned off to some other account that I can’t see here.

I know it’s Josh, because the only properties with double documents are the ones signed by him and him alone.

But I don’t know where the fuck he sent the money.

We’re talking almost fifty million dollars . . .

I guess Josh figured out he wasn’t getting the partnership. And he thought he deserved to be paid.

I sit back in my chair, mind whirling.

I have to tell my family, obviously. Especially Cal. I’m pretty sure I just discovered why Josh wants me dead. He poked his head in my office and saw me working on the purchase agreements. He must have thought I already knew about the duplicates—or was about to find them.

But strangely, I don’t rush to call Cal.

I want to talk to Raylan. I want to explain what I think I’ve found, and see if he thinks my conclusions are sound, or if I’ve missed something.

It’s not that I doubt myself—I just want his opinion. I’ve come to trust him over these weeks. Sometimes he sees things that I don’t.