“He didn’t mean his room at the home.”

“He meant the brick building downtown.”

Wyatt checked his mirrors and swung the truck across three lanes of traffic.

“The one near the river?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“It’s been boarded up for five years.”

“If the ledger is in there, it’s a miracle it hasn’t rotted.”

The truck tires hummed against the asphalt as we took the exit ramp.

The streets here were darker, lined with industrial warehouses and chain-link fences.

We pulled up to the curb a block away from the Bennett building.

It sat in the shadows, a three-story brick structure with plywood nailed over the lower windows.

A single streetlamp flickered at the corner, casting long, dancing shadows across the gravel lot.

“Look,” Wyatt whispered, pointing toward the side entrance.

The plywood over the basement door was hanging loose.

A faint light, like the beam of a flashlight, bounced against the interior brick wall inside.

My chest tightened as the light shifted inside the basement.

Wyatt reached into the glove box and pulled out his heavy metal flashlight.