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Damien slid the old laminated plan beneath Saturday’s working sheet.

“Finish?”

I set down my fork. “Enough that Laurie won’t materialize with a casserole.”

“I’m not convinced distance would stop her.”

“You’re learning.”

I put the lid back on the meal container and stood.

We had an event to open.

And now we had a much better reason to wonder where Grant Bellamy was.

***

I made it as far as the farm office before O’Shea’s promise to tell me what mattered became relevant.

The door stood open, and Rick’s voice carried into the lane.

“You moved money out of the produce budget without telling me?”

I stopped.

Damien stopped with me.

Clinton sat at the scarred table with both hands wrapped around a paper cup he didn’t appear to be drinking from. Rick stood across from him. O’Shea occupied the end of the table with a folder open.

Clinton looked miserable.

“I shifted expenses between accounts,” he said. “I wasn’t taking anything.”

“You delayed vendors.”

“I delayed some payments because we had payroll and the insurance renewal hitting in the same window. October cash flow was tighter than I told you.”

Rick’s face had gone red above the collar of his coat.

“That is not a decision you make without me.”

“I know.”

“You apparently didn’t.”

Clinton rubbed one hand over his forehead.

“The farm was solvent. We had money coming in. I was trying to get us through the gap without cutting hours or canceling anything right before the busiest weekends of the year.”

Justin had questioned the crash-barrier payment because the vendor had not been paid when Clinton said it had.

The truth was ugly enough to explain why Clinton had spent two days treating every invoice like classified information.

It was also painfully ordinary.

O’Shea noticed us in the doorway.

“Since you’re here, Sybil, this affects the records Justin was asking about. Clinton’s given us the account transfers and delayed-payment list.”