“Thomas was advising on restructuring. He had access.”
“Did Daniel confront him?”
“Yes.”
“How did that go?”
“Not well.”
She folded her hands on the table.
“Daniel wasn’t reckless. He was direct. He told Thomas if the numbers didn’t reconcile, he’d report it up the chain. Federal contracts don’t forgive mistakes.”
“Was Thomas worried?”
“He was angry.”
That matched my mother’s letter.
“Angry how?”
“Controlled. But tight. Like he’d already calculated what it would cost him.”
I let that sit.
“Were you at the lake the day Daniel died?” I asked.
“No.”
“Do you know who was?”
She hesitated.
“There were rumors.”
“What kind?”
“That Daniel had scheduled a meeting that evening. With Thomas.”
The air in the kitchen shifted.
“Was that documented anywhere?” I asked.
“No formal record. Just office chatter.”
“Daniel mentioned he was going to settle it face to face?”
“Yes.”
I leaned back in the chair.
If that meeting happened, it would mean Daniel wasn’t alone on the water.
Carla nodded slowly.
“I always thought that.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I tried.”
She stood up and walked to a filing cabinet against the wall. After a moment, she returned with a single sheet of paper.
It was a termination notice dated June 4, 1995. Ten days before Daniel’s death.
Reason: departmental restructuring.
“I was let go because I refused to delete backup files,” she said.
“Backup files?”
“Financial snapshots. Daniel wanted records preserved before the audit. And Thomas—he wanted them consolidated.”
Consolidated.
“Did you keep copies?” I asked.
She smiled faintly.
“I learned from Daniel. I kept what I could.”
She handed me a small folder.
Inside were printouts of transaction summaries matching the spreadsheet on my USB drive. The timestamps predated Daniel’s death by weeks.
“These weren’t included in the official dissolution filing,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“Because I checked the public record a year later.”
