Eric pulls his laptop from his duffel and takes a seat at the bar. “Let’s see,” he says, opening the program. “Okay, here’s one from September. There’s a charge from a catering company—we actually saw it enough times that we tracked each one. The charge says you spent a hundred and twenty-three dollars for Debbie’s Events—”

“But according to Jess’s notes in your calendar,” Daryl interrupts, “that day you were with a client for only an hour or two for voice-overs. There wasn’t any catering on set because it wasn’t on set. You met in the studio. What was that other one, Eric? The laundry?”

“Hollywood Linen,” he answers, and I pause, that name poking at something in the back of my head.

“That’s the one,” Daryl says. “And with that one, it’s not that the charges are for crazy amounts. Most of them are pretty small, like fifty dollars here, or a couple hundred at most, but they’re recurring and add up. You probably would have never noticed if you didn’t have to pull the reports for the audit.”

“What was the name of that company again?” I ask, pushing away from the counter to search inside my laptop bag. Jess’s retreat invoices are still in there.

The ones Brad told me to ignore and send directly to Kylie.

“Hollywood Linen?” he says.

“Yeah . . . right here.” I find the line item and point to it on the most recent expense card statement. “That’s here, too. There’s a billing for linen service for the dining room, but we didn’t use any at the retreat. The hotel included all of that in our block rate.”

I sit on the couch, opening the folder and spreading the invoices on the coffee table in front of me. “Can you give me a few of the other names?”

“Sure,” Eric says, clicking through his spreadsheet. “There’s Ever Beauty . . .”

I search down my list, finding it and putting a red check mark out to the side. It’s dated two days before the retreat. “Okay.”

“Celebaby.”

“That’s a nanny service?” I ask, finger moving down the page.

“Yeah,” Amelia says.

There it is. Another check, over the retreat weekend itself. Needless to say, no one brought their child to the department retreat.

“Roar PR.”

“Okay,” I say. Another red check.

What the hell?

“Glamband.”

Amelia moves to stand over me, watching as I find the name and scratch out another checkmark. “Holy shit,” she says, meeting my eyes. “That’s a whole lot of coincidence.”

“I bet if I started looking back through all my expenses, I’d find more,” I say, looking to Eric for confirmation.

He’s already nodding. “That would be my guess.”

I stand up, chewing on my nail as I walk to the window. My head feels like a game of Tetris, small pieces everywhere and a clock ticking away while I scramble to make them all fit. I turn to face the group.

“So, these companies are billing P&D for a lot of services that aren’t really happening?” I propose.

Eric shrugs, then nods. “I mean . . . yeah.”

“You know I’m not doing this, right?” I ask, horrified.

Eric startles, like it would never have occurred to him that it was me, and Daryl and Amelia are vehemently shaking their heads.

My pulse seems to be thundering inside my skull. “Is this even a thing that a single person could do?”

“It would take a lot of work, but it’s definitely possible,” Eric says. “I do think it would have to be someone within the company, though. Someone who has access to the various expense accounts, and with enough power to keep people from looking too closely.”

Carter’s voice echoes in my thoughts.

Why does he have it in for you, specifically?

Do you have something on him?

It doesn’t add up.

I let out a little gasp, and three sets of eyes meet mine.

I’m almost positive we’re all thinking the exact same thing.

• • •

“Are we absolutely sure we don’t want to call my grandpa?” Daryl says, lying next to me beneath a dirty old blanket in the bed of Eric Kingman’s truck.

Amelia reaches across me and smacks her. “I swear to God, if you get us caught and I have to call my ex-husband to bail me out for breaking and entering, I will find your old nose and staple it back on.”

Daryl lets out a horrified little squeak. “You monster!”

I bite back a laugh, and Daryl takes a deep, calming breath beside me. “Besides,” she says, “we’re with Eric, so I don’t technically think what we’re doing is considered breaking and entering, bu—”

“Shhhhh,” Eric says through the open cab window as we reach the security gate.

“Evening, Mr. Kingman,” the guard says.

The three of us stay completely still beneath the blanket, trying to make ourselves as small and invisible as humanly possible.

“Don’t think your uncle is home tonight. But your aunt is up there.”

“Thank you, Jerry. I’ll have Aunt Maxine send down some of those cookies you love. You have a good night.”

The truck starts moving again, slowly making its way up Brad Kingman’s impossibly long drive.

We haven’t lost our minds. It’s just that we all know Brad well enough to know that if he’s behind this, he wouldn’t keep any of these fictional company files at work. I’m on the verge of losing my job, and in just a half hour at Daryl’s apartment we totaled over fifty thousand dollars in money charged to my expense accounts alone. No wonder we’re being audited! How many places has Brad skimmed from?

I am grateful to the wine because it’s keeping at least half of my chill in place. Realizations keep falling onto each other like perfectly stacked dominoes. Primarily this: I was Brad’s fall guy. No wonder he kept me on, assuming that if I ever found out about his little retirement plan, he’s ensured that accusations against him are less credible if they come from a disgruntled has-been. Pinning me for screwing things up with Dave and Carter is one thing; there is no way in hell I’m going down for this level of outright fraud.

“We’re clear,” Eric says through the window, his voice tight and a little breathless. “You guys okay back there?”