I’m looking at the computer screen, but I’m seeing the flow of numerals in my brain. I’m watching them twist and reform in kaleidoscopic patterns. Until at last . . . at last . . . I see it. I see the irregularity. I see it, and I understand it. I let out a long, slow breath. “Motherfucker,” I whisper. Josh Hale has been stealing from us. And not a little bit . . . a whole fucking lot.
