I’m seated at my desk, poring over the numbers from last quarter. I really need to get home. But I can’t. Not until I complete this transaction. Something is missing. Something is off.

I’m concentrating so hard on finding the missing link that it startles me when the phone rings, the sound thrusting me hard and violently back into the real world. It’s not that I’m jumpy. I just thought I’d had the ringer switched off.

I pick up the receiver and shove it back down in its cradle. I’m in a hurry as it is. As a matter of principle, I keep the ringer switched off to avoid such disturbances, so whoever was calling shouldn’t have expected to reach me anyhow. That’s what my secretary is for. I silence the ringer and turn my attention back to the balance sheet. I sigh in relief, not because what I’m seeing makes me happy. It should. But it doesn’t. And it won’t make New Hope leaders very happy either. The accounts are nearly emptied. A parting gift, I guess you could say.

Still, the problem is, there should be more, in excess of two million dollars more if we’re being exact and trust me, I am. For hours now I’ve racked my brain. I’ve meticulously combed the bank statements trying to find out how and more importantly when the transfer could have taken place. Two million dollars does not just disappear into thin air. I’ll find it eventually. I have to. It is not in my nature to leave things undone. But then, this is why I’ve always liked numbers. They tell the truth, even when people don’t. In reality, it’s not the money I’m in search of. It’s the truth.

At some point, Martha comes in, a cup of hot tea in one hand, a stack of mail in the other. She places the tea on the corner of my desk and the mail in its rightful spot. “You’ve had a message,” she says.

I adjust the handle on my mug to the perfect 45-degree angle. Martha is pretty good. But on occasion even she gets it wrong. This feels like a betrayal. “Did you switch my ringer on?”

Her eyes narrow. I nod toward the phone to make myself clear.

“Of course not.” Clearly, she’s offended. In part about my calling her out, but also because I’m working late, and she would like to be dismissed. “Why would I do such a thing?”

Why would you get the angle wrong after all these years, I want to ask. But to do so would only cost me more time, and there’s no point in wasting it when I still have a little work ahead of me yet. To rectify the situation, I answer her question indirectly by taking the ruler from my desk drawer, shifting the mug to the original position in which it was placed on my desk. Then I lean forward at eye level and measure it. I meet Martha’s gaze and smile.

“See,” I motion. “Numbers don’t lie.” My imperfect secretary shakes her head and sees herself out without another word. Women don’t like it when you call them on their imperfections. Explicitly or implicitly.

I open my browser and type out an email letting my secretary know she’s dismissed for the evening. It’s easier to keep communication to a minimum with people like Martha, but in this case, my reasoning is two-fold. I need a paper trail.

What I don’t say is the dismissal is permanent. Right now, I need to focus on locating the missing money. I need to get home. I need to get out of dodge.

As I finish the email to Martha, my emergency phone rings. It stops me in my tracks.

Only two people know this number, and one of them is dead. I open the drawer and fish the cell phone out. Caller ID says it’s June. But that’s impossible.

I swipe to take the call. I don’t have a choice.

I don’t say hello. This isn’t the kind of call that requires pleasantries.

“You’ll want to come home,” the voice tells me calmly. “To see about your wife.”

I glance at the watch on my wrist. I have a lot of work to do here yet. I could say this, but it’s of little use. So, I settle on the obvious. “My wife—”

“Yes,” he says. “The one who isn’t dead yet.”