The driver’s side door of the truck flung open.

A figure stepped out into the pouring rain, holding a flashlight.

The beam of light cut through the downpour, swinging side to side.

It was Graham.

He wore his heavy oilskin coat, the collar turned up against the wind.

The rain ran off the brim of his hat in steady streams, soaking his shoulders.

“Lock the doors,” I whispered.

Alden’s hand trembled as he reached for the central locking button on the console.

The locks clicked down in unison, a sharp sound that felt far too quiet.

“What are we going to do?” Alden asked, his voice cracking under the strain.

“You are going to tell me the truth,” I said, turning my body toward him in the cramped seat.

“I told you,” he stammered, staring at the figure approaching us. “He’s going to file the papers.”

“What papers, Alden?” I demanded, my fingers gripping the edge of the dashboard. “Be specific.”

Outside, Graham’s boots crunched heavily on the wet gravel.

The white circle of his flashlight beam swept across the passenger side window.