“He isn’t a land broker,” I said, running my thumb over the blue ink.

“No,” Sophie said.

“He lives two streets over, on Birch.

I see him at the diner every Tuesday morning.”

The blue envelope lay open on the kitchen table, its torn flap resting against the edge of the ledger sheets.

Sophie flattened the top ledger copy with the palm of her hand.

“We need somebody who knows how to read these columns,” she said.

She took out her phone, checked the time on the screen, and tapped a number in her contacts.