“Caleb, you’re a mind reader,” he says, with a hearty chuckle.

“I wish,” I say. “It would make this whole private eye thing a hell of a lot easier. I don’t know how you can stand to do it, hour after hour, day after day.”

He says, “Well, this particular PI leaves enough time each day for something fine to eat, and something even finer to drink. But to get back to the point … I was about to phone you in a bit.”

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“I finally had a chance to look into that Lucas Dodd fellow and his wife,” he says, with a smooth and cultured voice. “And, hoo boy, let me tell you, with friends like that … ”

My ears perk up. I sit a little taller in my seat, wincing from long-dormant muscles that are loudly complaining about my first horse ride and the two beatings I’ve taken. Around this part of the gridlocked exchange are lots of trees and small homes and businesses. The sky is overcast, nearly melding in with the far gray horizon.

“Lucas,” I blurt, “is not my friend.”

Quite the understatement. I’ve been sneaking around behind his back with his beautiful wife now for more than a week.

“So what do you know, Gordon?” I add.

“I just want to be clear,” he says. “At this point, it’s only a rumor. But like my granddaddy used to say, if it fights like a gator, if it bites like a gator … ”

“I get it. Rumor. Okay. Just spit it out.”

I lean forward slightly in anticipation and grip my phone a bit tighter as he shares with me what he’s dug up on Mr. and Mrs. Dodd.

The details are sketchy, but the broad strokes are shocking. And quite troubling.

But if what he’s saying is true, it would explain a lot—not least why Vanessa seems trapped in a failing marriage that so clearly makes her miserable.

He is in the middle of a sentence when I hear a faint beep-beep sound interrupting us on the line. Another call is coming in. Right now? Really?

I glance at my screen. “Gordon, sorry, I’ll call you back.” It’s a number I don’t recognize, with a 318 area code. That’s central Louisiana. Where Emily Beaudette’s horse farm is. I wonder …

Before I’ve finished saying “hello,” she cuts me off.

“Detective?” she says strongly. “I want you to know that, against my lawyer’s very insistent advice … I instructed my accountant to send you something you might find helpful. At least I hope you do. Check your e-mail.”

I follow her command. In my inbox is a new message with a tantalizing little paper clip icon beside it. I tap the screen to open the e-mail. The attachment appears to be a spreadsheet, a whopping half-gigabyte in size, titled KB CORP—MASTER FIN REPS, FY 2007-17.