“The security footage from your house,” Harris said. “The files from the night you were locked in.”

He pulled out his own tablet and unlocked the screen, showing a directory of video files with red exclamation marks next to them.

“Someone didn’t just bypass the cameras,” Harris said.

“They were deleted?” Arthur asked.

“No,” Harris said, looking directly into my eyes. “They were modified. And the login IP address wasn’t from North Carolina.”

“Where was the login from?” I asked, my fingers tightening on Arthur’s arm.

“The login came from a registered IP address at a resort in Hilton Head, South Carolina,” Harris said.

“Hilton Head?” Arthur asked, his bushy eyebrows drawing together. “That’s where Patricia has her timeshare.”

“Yes,” Harris said. “But the user account that authorized the deletion wasn’t Patricia’s.”

“Whose was it?” I asked, though deep down, I already knew the answer.

“Landon’s,” Harris said.

He gestured for us to follow him down the narrow, fluorescent-lit hallway of the station.

My sneakers squeaked against the polished gray linoleum.

We stopped in front of a heavy metal door with a small window of reinforced wired glass.