Daniel looked through the glass toward the street below.
"Different gets people into trouble."
"I'm already in trouble."
That was fair.
He asked, "Who do you suspect?"
Evelyn's answer came quietly.
"Victor Hail."
Daniel remembered Victor's face when the adapter had been removed.
"What makes you think he's involved?"
"That's the problem."
"What is?"
"I don't know."
Daniel turned.
Evelyn removed her phone and opened several files.
"Every time I find something that points toward Victor, another piece of evidence appears proving he couldn't have done it. Login records place him somewhere else. Approval codes come from his terminal when he's in meetings. Financial instructions carry his authorization, but some timestamps are impossible."
Daniel studied the screen.
"Then somebody wants you to suspect him."
Evelyn slowly looked up.
"That's what I'm afraid of."
Daniel thought of Victor's reaction in the ballroom.
"Or somebody wants Victor to know you suspect him."
Evelyn's expression tightened.
That possibility was worse.
That evening Daniel drove Lily home.
Their rented house stood on a quiet street lined with old maple trees. The porch needed repainting. The kitchen floor creaked near the refrigerator. The heater made an annoying clicking noise every winter that Daniel kept promising himself he would fix properly.
Lily loved the house anyway.
She dropped her backpack beside the couch.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you okay?"
Daniel was setting his keys on the counter.
"Why?"
"You've been quiet."
"Just tired."
Lily studied him.
She had inherited that look from her mother.
The look that said she already knew when an adult was lying badly.
Then she noticed something in his hand.
The napkin.
Daniel had forgotten he was holding it.
"What's that?"
"Nothing."
Lily reached for it.
Daniel moved too late.
She unfolded it.
Her eyes found the words.
Help me.
Her expression changed.
"Who wrote this?"
"A woman I met today."
"Is she in trouble?"
Daniel took the napkin gently.
"Maybe."
"What kind?"
"Grown-up kind."
Lily hated that answer.
She climbed onto one of the kitchen chairs.
"That means you're not telling me."
"It means you don't need to worry about it."
"Those aren't the same thing."
Daniel looked at her.
Sometimes he wondered whether raising a smart child was punishment for every time he had argued with his own parents.
Lily looked at the napkin.
"Are you going to help her?"
"I don't know."
"Why not?"
"Because sometimes helping somebody can cause bigger problems."
"For them?"
"For everybody."
Lily considered that.
Then she said, "Mom would help."
Daniel went still.
Lily immediately looked down.
Neither of them spoke.
His wife, Rachel, had been gone for four years.
Cancer.
Eight months from diagnosis to funeral.
There were still moments when Daniel entered a room expecting her to be there.
Still mornings when he opened the kitchen cabinet and remembered exactly how she arranged coffee mugs.
Still nights when Lily asked a question and Daniel knew Rachel would have answered it better.
He sat beside his daughter.
"You sound like her."
Lily's voice became smaller.
"Is that bad?"
"No."
Daniel kissed the top of her head.
"That's never bad."
After Lily went to bed, Daniel remained at the kitchen table.