I climbed over the low chain-link fence into the alley behind the apartment complex.

My rental sedan was parked two blocks away under a dead streetlamp.

I walked quickly, my boots hitting the pavement in a steady, silent rhythm.

I kept my hand inside my jacket, resting on the grip of my Sig Sauer.

Nobody followed me into the dark alley.

I reached my car, unlocked it with the fob, and got behind the wheel.

I sat in the dark for five minutes, watching the mirrors.

Only a stray cat moved across the street.

I started the engine and drove toward the highway.

The Prescott estate was located in south Charlotte, surrounded by stone walls and high gates.

I needed that diary.

Melissa’s words were the only thing that could bypass the Prescott family’s legal shield.

If she had documented the abuse, the old fractures, and the threats, it would give the federal prosecutors what they needed.

It would save Emily from the same fate.

I drove to a twenty-four-hour diner near the interstate to clear my head.

The interior smelled of burnt coffee and grease.