“They are already there,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

Roman stared at the screen, his jaw tightening as he read the words.

“We don’t know that for sure,” he said, his voice flat and controlled.

“My father’s house is the first place they would look,” I said, my hands clenching into fists inside the pockets of the heavy coat.

“Then we have to be smarter than them,” Roman said, shifting the vehicle into reverse and backing out of the garage.

The cold night air hit the windshield as we cleared the gates of the estate.

The tires gripped the wet asphalt of the driveway, kicking up loose gravel.

“Roman, wait,” I said, looking back at the iron gates closing behind us.

“We don’t have time to wait, Lena,” he replied, turning onto the main road.

“No, think about what they want,” I said. “They want the records, but they don’t know where he kept them.”

Roman kept his eyes on the dark street ahead, his hands steady on the steering wheel.

“And your father would have hidden them where he felt safest,” Roman said.