As we hit the highway, the wipers slapped rhythmically against the windshield.

The dark shapes of the oak trees flew past us in the night.

I looked down at my phone.

A notification popped up on the screen, a message from an unknown number.

I tapped it open.

It was a single image.

The photo showed the iron gates of the Sonoma ranch, wide open in the dark.

The headlights of a black SUV were visible in the driveway, shining on the wet gravel.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

Then, the phone began to ring, the screen displaying a restricted number.

I slid my thumb across the glass and pressed the phone to my ear.

The rain beat a steady, heavy rhythm against the passenger window.

“Alana,” a voice said.

It was my father.

His breath came in short, ragged gasps, accompanied by the low rumble of an engine.

“I know you have the files from the office,” he said.

“Where are you, Mark?” I asked, my voice flat.

“I am at the ranch,” he said.

A chill ran down my spine, cold and sharp.