“He’s upstairs,” I lied.

Harris took another step into the kitchen, his heavy flashlight swinging by his side.

“Smells like gas in here, Clara.”

“I have a leak,” I said. “I’m waiting for the utility company.”

“Right,” Harris said.

He did not look worried about a spark.

He unbuttoned his civilian jacket completely, revealing his service weapon in its leather holster.

“Let’s skip the small talk,” Harris said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black notebook.

“The storm is getting worse,” he said. “And I don’t have all night to play husband and wife with you.”

“What do you want, Detective?” I asked.

“The ledger,” he said.

He looked directly into my eyes, his face pale and wet from the rain.

“The black leather book Julian kept in his study,” Harris said. “The one with the offshore routing numbers.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

Harris took a step closer, his boots squeaking loudly on the wet slate.

“Don’t lie to me, Clara,” he said.

His voice was quiet, but it had a hard, dangerous edge.