“I don’t know yet, sweetheart,” I said.

“If he moves money out of sequence, it triggers a tax flag,” Sophie said, her voice tightening.

“Is Dad sick?”

“He took his coat and left,” I said softly, holding the phone close to my collar.

“That is all I know today.”

When I hung up, I checked the tax schedules from the year before.

Every page had been filed neatly by our accountant, but on the schedule for personal deductions, Greg had drawn a small star in red pen beside Arthur Vance’s name.

At four fifteen, I parked my station wagon in the visitor lot outside Whitman Engineering.