His shoulders went rigid under his tailored wool coat.

“Eleanor!” he barked, his voice rising in anger.

He turned toward the glass French doors leading to the terrace.

“We have to move,” I whispered in Eleanor’s ear.

I pushed the glass door open quietly, sliding out into the damp evening air.

The coastal fog was rolling in, thick and cold.

Eleanor followed, her breath coming in shallow gasps behind me.

The gravel crunched under our feet as we hurried down the terrace steps toward the driveway.

“Stop right there,” a voice called out.

We froze.

Gregory stood on the stone terrace, his coat open, his face dark in the dim garden lights.

Two of his private security guards stepped out from the shadows near the garage.

They blocked the path to my sedan.

“I knew you couldn’t stay away, Natalie,” Gregory said, stepping down the stone stairs.

His black shoes sank into the wet gravel.

His eyes locked onto the front of my Army uniform jacket.

He saw the slight bulge where the journal rested.

“Give it to me,” he said, holding out a hand.