The mortgage payout went right into that very same clearing account.”

“We need to talk to Ethan before school lets out,” I said.

At half past two I pulled my sedan up to the curb across the street from Oakridge High School.

The dismissal bell rang, and teenagers poured past the cedar shingles of the old residential garages along the street.

Ethan opened the passenger door, climbed in, and pulled the heavy door closed against the autumn wind.

He reached into his canvas backpack and pulled out seven yellow folders held together with two thick black rubber bands.