Every case is a real week of someone’s life, closed too fast.

A marina bookkeeper drowned off Dock C in 1997 and the file closed in a week. Now an anonymous letter reopens it, and the marina that has been selling boats on paper for a living turns out to keep two sets of books. Six people who were on that dock will sit down with you. Two of the documents in your packet cannot both be true — find them.

A money-transfer agency owner died in a strip-mall lot in 2011 and a tired deputy wrote “robbery” before the witness finished talking. The catch is a county line: nobody ever made the phone call to Miami, where the cameras were. Cross the jurisdiction the original investigation never crossed and find out whose silver Dade-plate car sat at a store that had closed at six.

A woman crossed a red light in 2023 and a loaded dump truck did the rest, and the driver of that truck has been in Raiford ever since on the word of a man who happened to be on the corner. Her passenger survived, and what she has finally remembered is an apology. Halfway through this file you will take an innocent man out of prison — and then you will have to work out that freeing him was not the same as solving it.

The American Legion post turns a hundred this year, and its books are about to be opened for the occasion. The woman who kept those books — and alphabetized her spice rack — went backwards down four concrete steps and never got up. A locked storage unit, a dead treasurer’s hidden drive, and a rate card with too much room in it. Follow the money that came in one door and left the same week.

A deckhand was lost overboard from a sponge boat in 2003 — the sea took him, the captain said, and the family carried remittances on that same boat for years. But three engine hours and twelve gallons of fuel do not reach the edge of the shelf, and a truck key does not end up in the galley of a boat forty miles out. A widow has waited twenty-three years for someone with a badge to read the shelf.

In 1974 a surveyor died on a citrus-grove boundary and a grove hand signed a confession he could not read. Half a century later his daughter petitions to reopen it — and the row of oaks along the disputed line can be dated to the ring. This one asks you to weigh a confession against the physical evidence and decide who moved the pin, and who let an innocent man rot for it.