“It’s bigger than you think,” Alden said. “And Graham isn’t the only one involved. You need to get out of there right now.”

A floorboard creaked outside my door.

The brass doorknob of the carriage house began to turn, slowly and silently.

The brass doorknob turned.

I pressed the phone to my chest to muffle any sound of my breathing.

I slid the thick Cypress Meridian folder under my wax coat, pressing it flat against my ribs.

The door creaked open.

The damp night air rushed into the room, carrying the scent of wet boxwood and old horse manure.

I stepped behind the tall wooden wardrobe near the back window.

A flashlight beam cut through the dark.

It swept across the dusty workbench, lighting up old glass jars of copper nails and rusted horseshoes.

The footsteps were heavy, dragging slightly on the concrete floor.

It wasn’t Celeste; her heels would have clicked loudly.

This was Graham.

He stepped fully into the carriage house, his breathing heavy.

Through the gap in the wardrobe doors, I saw the collar of his tailored tweed jacket.