The basement was a large, open space filled with metal shelves and filing cabinets.

At the far end, the vault door was open.

Inside, Charles was standing over a metal trash can.

A yellow flashlight lay on a wooden table next to him, its beam pointing at the wall.

He was pulling thick paper folders from the shelves and throwing them into the can.

Next to the can was a red plastic jerry can.

The cap was off.

The smell of gasoline was thick enough to make my eyes water.

“Charles,” I said.

My voice was quiet, but it echoed in the concrete room.

He spun around.

His face was pale, covered in sweat and grease.

He held a silver Zippo lighter in his right hand.

His thumb was resting on the wheel.

“Stay back, Arthur,” Charles said.

His voice was trembling.

“I’ll burn it all.”

“The hard drives are in here.”

“The paper records are in here.”

“If you take one more step, I’ll drop the lighter.”

“You’ll burn yourself with it,” I said.

“The fumes are too thick.”