“We need to make a stop before we reach the courthouse,” I said.

I turned the car onto a narrow state route that wound through the redwood forests.

The fog was beginning to roll in from the coast, thick and damp.

The headlights struggled to pierce the gray mist.

Eleanor reached over and placed her hand over mine.

“Your father would have been proud of you, Natalie,” she said.

“I just want the truth,” I said.

We reached a small gravel driveway tucked behind a wall of thick ferns.

At the end of the dark driveway stood a modest cedar cabin with a single light burning in the window.

I parked the car under a towering pine tree and grabbed the red folder.

“Stay here,” I told Vance and Eleanor.

“If anyone else pulls into this driveway, blow the horn and drive away.”

I walked up the wooden steps to the front porch, the boards creaking under my boots.

Before I could knock, the heavy oak door swung inward.

An elderly man with white hair and a thick wool sweater stood in the doorway.