I tapped the message.

*I know what Grant did with the bank accounts. Meet me at the harbor dock in ten minutes. – C.*

I looked up at the dark harbor, my fingers tightening around the phone.

“Diane, stop the car,” I said.

She kept her eyes on the road but slowed her speed.

“What is it?” she asked.

I held out the screen of my phone so she could see the glowing text.

“Caleb,” she read aloud. “He wants to meet at the dock.”

“He says he knows what Grant did with the bank accounts.”

Diane turned the steering wheel, pivoting the sedan onto Balboa Boulevard.

“It could be a trap,” she said. “Or Grant could have sent him to offer a lowball settlement.”

“Caleb has the deciding vote on the board,” I said. “If he’s reaching out, I have to listen.”

The sedan rolled past the dark storefronts of the peninsula.

The smell of saltwater and low tide drifted through the vents.

Diane pulled into the gravel lot near the public pier.

A single figure stood under the yellow glare of a sodium lamp.