We drove in silence for thirty minutes as the city buildings gave way to the rolling hills of the suburbs.

The private airfield was tucked behind a line of dense pine trees.

As we approached the entrance, I saw a silver Mercedes SUV parked near the main hangar.

“That’s Nolan’s car,” Sloane said, leaning forward.

Thomas pulled the sedan into the gravel lot, stopping fifty yards away.

I could see two figures standing near the open rear door of the SUV.

Nolan was throwing leather suitcases into the back of a small twin-engine plane parked on the tarmac.

Marjorie stood beside him, her expensive wool coat wrapped tightly around her.

Her hair was disheveled, and she kept looking over her shoulder toward the road.

“Wait here,” I told Sloane and Thomas.

“Miss Hartwell, your father said—” Thomas began.

“I’ll be fine,” I said.

I opened the car door and stepped out into the cold drizzle.

The gravel crunched beneath my leather boots.

The wind blew the rain into my face, but I did not blink.

I walked toward the hangar, my eyes fixed on Nolan’s back.