He kept his eyes on the screens, watching the black-and-white feeds of the snowy estate grounds.

“The USB drive,” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling it out.

I had grabbed it from the desk before we ran.

“There is a computer in the corner,” I said, pointing to the secure workstation in the safe room.

Damon looked at the drive in my hand, then slowly looked up at my face.

“Nora, some things are better left in the dark,” he said.

“My son is being watched inside our own home,” I said, my voice cracking. “Nothing stays in the dark anymore.”

I walked over to the desk, sat down, and plugged the drive into the computer.

The screen flickered to life.

A single folder appeared on the desktop, labeled with a string of alphanumeric characters.

I clicked it open.

Damon came to stand behind me, his shadow falling over the keyboard.

The folder contained dozens of subfolders, organized by date, spanning the last four years.

I clicked on the oldest folder, dated just weeks after I had fled Chicago.