“He left scraps,” Dean said, moving closer until his shadow filled the doorway.

“He was mixed up about the family ledgers.

He was missing morning meetings at the lumber yard and forgetting where he’d parked his truck.

If he wrote things in a notebook back then, that was just the confusion talking.”

“He wrote numbers down,” I said.

“Numbers don’t mean a thing without context,” Dean said.

He held out his open hand, palm up.

“Where are the papers, Clara?”