“One of the companies we’re interested in is called Rapture Therapeutics. They’ve developed what may just be a cure for Alzheimer’s and other neurodegenerative disorders.”

He slipped another page across the desk: a research brief on Rapture’s latest breakthrough.

“Does that interest you?”

She read while he waited, only half-understanding the science.

“So,” he said. “What’s your answer, Avery? I need to know right now. There’s one position. You’re the first in line, but not the last.”

“You already know my answer,” she said.

“Welcome aboard, then.”

She spent a year after that researching the companies Rubicon was interested in. And as the months went by, a sneaking suspicion grew in her mind. At home, she began to keep separate files from the ones she turned in. She thought about her theory during every waking hour: while visiting her father at the care facility, at the gym, during flights, and in the countless hotel rooms that all ran together. In every meeting, at every company she visited, she began looking for evidence, any clue that might confirm her suspicions—or confirm that she had officially gone crazy.

One morning, she walked into David’s office, closed the door, and prepared to tell him what she thought. In her mind, she had imagined how he might react: laughing out loud, telling her to take a day off, telling her to stop watching so much TV.

She said the line she’d rehearsed a dozen times. “I think there’s something going on at the companies you’ve asked me to research.”

“Like what?” His voice was even.

“I think they’re fronts.”

He still betrayed no emotion. Not surprise; not even interest. “Fronts for what?”

She swallowed. “Terrorism.”

He focused on his computer, began typing, acting as if she had told him their lunch meeting was canceled. “That’s a very serious allegation.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said, unwavering.

“I’m going to a meeting in Virginia tomorrow. I’ll be driving up. I’d like you to come with me. Are you free?”

Avery stood there, confused. It was as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “Yeah, I’m free—did you… hear what I just said?”

“I did. Let’s meet here at nine. I’m sorry, Avery, I’ve got to run.”

The next morning, they got on Highway 1 North, then I-85. At Petersburg, they took I-95 North. To Avery’s surprise, they passed right through Richmond. After the exits for Fredericksburg, David turned off and drove through the country.

He parked in front of a large colonial-era home with a crushed stone driveway.

Inside, he ushered her into a wood-paneled library where several corkboards were covered with names and colored strings. She knew the names. Corporations. There were photos of the companies’ officers and investors. Desmond Hughes. Conner McClain. They were all connected. These were the companies she had been investigating.