His trouble has to be entirely his own doing.” I agreed.

The trap, if it was one, had to be built by him.

It didn’t take long.

Within a day the review of Zane’s division turned up a landscape of quiet rot: expense accounts padded far past reason, a week in the Bahamas billed to the company as a “client retreat,” and — the part that mattered most — a string of lucrative distribution contracts steered to a single vendor, Greywater Distributing, a shell whose real owner was Zane’s cousin, a man named Broderick Vopat.

None of it was clever, which was the thing that struck me most as the summaries came in.

I had braced myself, a little, for the possibility that the man I’d married was at least a skilled thief.