We waited in the silence, our breath forming pale plumes of mist.

The engine rumbled for another five seconds, then suddenly died.

The headlights went black, plunging us back into the cold, gray twilight of the room.

Outside, a car door slammed shut with a heavy, metallic thud.

“We have to close the laptop,” I whispered, reaching for the screen.

“No,” Marcus said, holding his hand over mine. “Look. It finished loading.”

I looked down under the folds of Marcus’s coat.

The document attached to my father’s name was fully open on the screen.

It was an official record from the county registry, but the top corner was stamped with the Bellamy Group logo.

The document was a certificate of death for Arthur Jennings.

“It says he died of a sudden coronary event,” I said, reading the neat, typed letters.

“Look at the date, Emily,” Charles whispered, pointing to the line below the signature.

The date of his recorded death was October 14th, fifteen years ago.

“That’s impossible,” I said. “He was still at home then. He didn’t disappear until the seventeenth.”