“We need the rest of the logbooks.”

We hurried down the stone steps, our shoes splashing in the puddles.

I unlocked the car, and we scrambled inside.

The smell of damp leather and old paper filled the small cabin.

I tossed the envelope onto the back seat and started the engine.

The headlights cut through the dark, rainy night.

As I shifted into reverse, I saw the front door of the estate open again.

Colonel Whitaker stood under the porch light.

He was holding his phone to his ear, his face illuminated by the screen’s blue glow.

He was not looking at us; he was looking down the long, winding driveway.

“Why is he calling?” I asked, backing the car around the circular gravel driveway.

“He isn’t calling the police,” Aaron said, looking out the passenger window.

“The police would require a public record.”

“He’s calling the people who keep his secrets.”

I pressed the accelerator, and the tires spun on the wet gravel before catching.

We sped down the driveway, the branches of the oaks clawing at the windshield.

I looked in the rearview mirror.