I looked down at the key ring in her hand.

The metal was cold and dull, but it was the first real lead we had.

I shifted the car back into drive and headed toward the narrow dirt path by the cliff.

The dirt path was narrow, bracketed by thick blackberry brambles that clawed at the side mirrors of the car.

The engine hummed low as I kept the speed down, trying not to kick up a cloud of dust that could be seen from the main house.

Eleanor pointed toward a break in the dark pines ahead.

“Take the left fork,” she said. “It leads behind the old stables.”

I steered the car onto the grass-grown trail.

The ground was uneven, sending sharp jolts through the steering wheel.

Up ahead, the silhouette of the carriage house appeared through the rising coastal fog.

It was a gray stone structure, its slate roof sagging under the weight of wet moss and years of neglect.

I killed the engine and switched off the headlights.

The sudden silence of the northern California coast settled over us, broken only by the distant, rhythmic boom of the surf against the cliffs.