Chapter 7: The Late Night

Maxwell was waiting at the end of the street when Winifred and I drove out of Greenwich.

He followed us back to Stamford in a black car and parked in front of her house without being asked.

"I heard all of it," he said at the door. "The phone stayed on."

"The man in the gray car," I said.

"I heard that too. Come in. I want to show you something."

Winifred made tea nobody drank and went up to bed at nine.

"Leave the porch light on," she said to me from the stairs. "In case he needs to find the door at four in the morning."

She did not look at Maxwell when she said it.

We spread his papers across her kitchen table.

He had pulled the bank details on all six transfers, and the money had gone to one place every time.

"Redfern Advisory," he said. "A consulting firm. It has an account, a post office box and no employees I can find."

"A consulting thing," I said.

He looked up.

"That's what my father said at brunch. He retired in March, and he said he had a consulting thing."

"Hazel."

"I know."

"It might be a coincidence."

"It might be," I said.

Neither of us said what we thought.

He went back to the papers. I went back to the ledger on my laptop, the one I had kept in my head for four years.

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