I pull Debbie’s name up on my phone for the second time this week, but before I commit to pressing Call, I remind myself to breathe. It’s not my style to confront someone without all the facts. So while I can confidently accuse her of stealing from me, it’d be nice to have time to research what she used that money for and have the full story.

“Fine,” I concede to Casey, determining I owe that much to the person who just helped me figure out Debbie has wronged me for the last time.

The apartment looks like a pseudo sorority house as Casey and I take turns sharing the mirror in the bathroom. As of five seconds ago, I’ve affixed the last hot curler in my hair with a bobby pin. It’s funny—I haven’t put curlers in my hair in nearly five years. Granted, I chopped ten inches off right after Decker died, but still I never found myself back in the routine even once my hair grew out.

Because these things have to set for at least twenty-five minutes to create the soft but polished waves I am looking for, I’m using the time my hair is tied up to do something useful with my hands. Right now, that means googling the Austins’ lawyer. I’m not sure if they’ll have it posted, but if I can find out their retainer fee, perhaps I can link it to the missing withdrawal amount.

After Decker’s accident, his family filed a bullish wrongful death civil lawsuit against the organizers of the race. Attorneys warned them from day one the judge was likely to throw the case out since Decker had PFO, a birth defect. Assuming Casey is on to something with the Austin family financials not being all they’re cracked up to be, they could have tapped into the policy money instead of having to use their own so there’d be nothing to lose if the case went cold, which is exactly what it did.

“So if I send you the link to his Facebook profile, can you run him through the wringer?” Casey is standing in the hallway wrapped in a towel with wet hair. She is staring at me, more like through me. In one hand, she’s armed with a piece of peanut-butter-covered matzo, and in the other, she’s holding her cell phone.

“The what?” I say, looking up from my phone screen.

“Your app thingy. The one you funnel all your guys through.”

“Yeah, I know what you’re talking about, but that...that’s an incredible name for it. Drop the w and call it The Ringer.”

Suddenly, the smoke clears from the bullshit research I was just doing, and I repeat the name at least three more times in my head. The Ringer. The Ringer. The Ringer. According to Warren, I still need to figure out how a user can filter by breast size and land on a name. Sounds like I can check one of those off the list.