By eleven o’clock Sunday night the whole house was dark and silent.

I sat at the small mahogany desk tucked into the alcove of our bedroom, lit only by a single brass gooseneck lamp.

On the leather blotter lay my yellow corporate compliance audit ledger from my seven years as a financial investigator, along with a pile of paper bank transaction slips I’d taken from the filing cabinet in Grant’s home office.

I pressed my thumb to the inside of my wrist as I sorted the slips by the dates in their red ink stamps.