So I wait for Raylan to come back from fixing the mats.

He strolls into the kitchen, sweaty and a little sunburned, but looking cheerful.

“You want some lemonade?” he says, taking the jug out of the fridge.

“No,” I say. “Well . . . maybe I will.”

The lemonade looks pretty damn good.

Raylan pours us each a glass, and we drink it standing up, next to the sink.

“What are you about to tell me?” he says, grinning a little. “You look excited.”

I explain what I found, and what I think it means.

Raylan listens, his face still except for a little line of tension between his eyebrows.

“So?” I say when I’m finished. “What do you think?”

“That’s pretty quick for that Josh guy to hire a hitman,” he says. “Just a couple hours at most from seeing the documents on your desk to the time the Djinn got in the pool . . . ”

“He knows where I live. He probably even knows I like to swim, the nosy fucker.”

Raylan is quiet, twisting his empty glass between his thick fingers.

“What?” I say.

“I dunno. It makes sense . . . if this guy’s been stealing money from your family, he’d do anything to cover it up. But something’s off . . . ”

I feel flustered that Raylan isn’t entirely agreeing with me. I know I asked for his opinion, but it’s unsatisfying to hear that I might not have solved it.

“Where did you get the extra files from?” Raylan says.

“I asked Lucy to send them to me.”

He frowns. “Did you tell her where you’re staying?”

“No, of course not.”

“But you emailed her from this laptop?”

“Yes,” I say hesitantly. “Does it matter?”

“Probably not,” he says, but he looks troubled. “Have you called your brother yet?”

“No. I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Alright. Well, call him now if you like.”

He hands me his phone. It’s an old one of Bo’s that Raylan’s been using, since his cellphone got burned up in my apartment along with everything else.

I dial Cal’s number, putting it on speaker so Raylan can hear the tinny ringing at the same time as me.

Cal picks up after only a couple of rings, sounding slightly out of breath.

“Hello?” he says, with that slightly suspicious tone he always has when he doesn’t recognize a number.

“It’s me,” I say.

“Oh, right,” he says. “Sorry, I keep forgetting to make a contact for this phone—”

“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupt. “I think I know who hired the Djinn.”

“You do?” his tone is eager and tense. “Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker. Dante’s with me right now.”

I hear Dante’s rumbling voice—“What happened? What did you find out?”

I quickly summarize again.

There’s silence when I finish, Cal and Dante digesting what I’ve said.

Then Cal says, “That slimy little shit.”

Cal’s only met Josh once or twice, but I don’t think he liked him any more than I did. Cal’s always had a particular hatred of suck-ups and brown-nosers. I think it comes from his days at that fancy private school, where other kids would try to leech on to him because of our family name.