The sound of grinding metal and snapping branches echoed down the valley.

“They’re right on top of the old burial ground,” Blake said, his hand grabbing my shoulder.

“We have to get up there,” I said, starting toward the path.

“Wait,” Blake said, pointing down the main driveway.

Through the trees, we could see red and blue lights flashing against the wet leaves.

Two police cruisers were winding their way up the gravel road toward Mercer House.

The sirens were silent, but the emergency lights cast a eerie, pulsing glow over the estate.

My phone vibrated violently in my hand, the screen lighting up with a fresh incoming call.

I looked down and saw Warren Bellamy’s name flashing on the caller ID.

I answered it, holding the phone tightly against my ear to block out the roar of the wind and the distant bulldozer.

“Where are you?” Bellamy’s voice was panicked, stripped of his usual professional calm.

“I’m at the gatehouse,” I said. “The police are here, Warren.”

“Listen to me,” Bellamy said, his breath hitching. “Do not let them go up to the ridge yet.”