“He’s already there,” she said.

She pressed her foot harder on the gas pedal.

The sedan surged forward into the dark.

The headlights cut through the heavy downpour, revealing the exit sign for Grand Avenue just ahead.

My heart hammered against my ribs as we turned off the highway.

The industrial park was dark, a maze of grey concrete warehouses.

We pulled around the first corner, and then I saw it.

A black SUV was idling near the loading dock of the warehouse.

Its headlights were off, but the taillights glowed red in the wet night.

A man in a dark slicker stood beside the open rear hatch, holding a heavy plastic bin.

As our headlights swept over him, he turned his face toward us.

It wasn’t Grant.

It was the security guard from our estate.

He dropped the bin into the back of the SUV and reached for the driver’s door.

“Block him,” I said.

Diane swung the sedan sideways, blocking the exit lane of the driveway.

The SUV’s engine roared as the guard threw it into gear.

He didn’t back down.