“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m telling the truth.”

He stepped back, gesturing toward the French doors.

“You should leave the way you came,” he said. “Before my mother’s guards do their next sweep.”

I didn’t say another word.

I turned and stepped through the French doors, back into the wet, dark night.

The cold rain hit my face, shocking my senses.

I ran through the shadows of the manicured lawn, keeping low.

My boots sank into the wet turf.

I reached the perimeter fence and climbed over, using the same tree branch I had used to enter.

Ten minutes later, I was back in my unmarked vehicle, parked half a mile down the road.

I locked the doors and turned on the dome light.

I pulled the diary and the envelope from my jacket.

The diary’s leather cover was slightly wet from the rain.

I opened the manila envelope.

Inside were photocopy sheets of the original police reports.

The logo of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department was at the top.

I scanned the first page.

My eyes stopped on a sentence near the bottom.