I’m still there when Raylan returns from hauling mats out to the truck.
“You want some chickens?” he asks me with a grin.
“No,” I say. “I’m just amazed they can do this, when they look so weak and floppy.”
“They’re tougher than they look.”
He scoops one of the clean, fluffy chicks out of its glass box and places it in my hands. I’m amazed how light it is, and how soft. I can feel its heartbeat against my thumb, ten times faster than my own. The chick nuzzles down in my palm, enjoying the warmth.
All our purchases complete, we head over to the French Market Creperie as Raylan promised. Raylan and I split a banana/Nutella/walnut crepe, and I have to admit, it’s pretty damn good. Not far off the crepes I ate in France.
We head back to the ranch, the heavy rubber horse stall mats weighing down the bed of the truck.
While Raylan and Grady are unloading, I head back into the house. I want to go back over those purchase agreements again, so I can puzzle out the discrepancy one more time.
Opening Bo’s laptop, I notice the deep quiet of the kitchen, punctuated only by a few creaks from the older parts of the house, and the odd distant animal sound from outdoors.
It feels strange to be alone.
I’m surprised how quickly I’m getting used to the noise and bustle of the ranch, and the near-constant companionship of Raylan himself. Twice I find myself looking up from the work, about to make a comment to him, only to realize that he’s out in the stables, not in the kitchen with me.
I shake my head at my idiocy and try to lose myself in the numbers like I usually do.
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.
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.”