I placed the journal on the desk under the harsh fluorescent light.

My fingers shook as I turned the yellowed pages, searching for the dates Claire had recorded in the final weeks of her life.

“Here,” I said, pointing to an entry dated October twelfth, three days before the crash.

Pierce leaned over my shoulder, his coat smelling of stale coffee and the cold mountain air.

“Read it,” he said.

“‘Arthur Vance came to the house today while Benjamin was in Tokyo,’” I read aloud, my voice tightening. “‘He wasn’t here for a budget review. I found him in the garage, standing near the driver’s side of the Range Rover. When I asked him what he was doing, he told me he was checking the tire pressure for our trip to Denver.’”

Marcus leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the page.

“Vance is a corporate officer,” Marcus said. “He doesn’t check tire pressure.”

“Keep reading,” Pierce urged.