The hospital called me before midnight and told me my six-year-old son was dying.

Now federal agents moved through it in gloves.

They carried out boxes. Hard drives. Plastic bags sealed with red tape.

At 9:43 a.m., Harris came back to the car.

His face told me before his words did.

“You found it,” I said.

He nodded.

“Behind the painting?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

He sat in the driver’s seat but did not start the engine.

“A ledger.”

The word made my skin crawl.

“Names?”

“Names. Dates. Payments. Initials.”