The porch light was on, casting a warm yellow glow across the wet wooden steps.

I didn’t even have to knock.

The front door opened, and Daniel stood there, wearing a dark sweater and holding a mug of coffee.

“You’re shaking,” he said gently, stepping aside to let me in.

“I have the files,” I said, pulling the USB drive from my coat pocket.

He closed the door behind me, locking it.

“Come into the kitchen,” he said. “Chloe is fast asleep.”

The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and coffee.

Daniel had his laptop open on the wooden table, surrounded by paper copies of the charity fund public reports.

I sat down and handed him the drive.

He plugged it in, and his fingers moved quickly over the trackpad.

He opened the files I had downloaded.

For the next two hours, we sat side by side, analyzing the spreadsheets.

Daniel’s background as an architect made him meticulous with numbers and structures.

He pointed at a row of figures from last October.

“Look here,” Daniel said. “James signed off on a shipment of chemotherapy drugs worth four hundred thousand dollars.”