I knew the layout of the kitchen by heart.

My hand found the brass latch of the back door.

I lifted it quietly and stepped out onto the rear deck.

The cold November rain stung my face.

The wind whipped through the pines, drowning out the sound of my footsteps.

I closed the door behind me, leaving it unlocked so it wouldn’t click.

I hurried down the wooden steps toward the stone springhouse.

The stone structure sat thirty feet behind the cabin, built into the side of the clay bank.

My boots slipped on the wet pine needles.

I reached the heavy oak door of the springhouse and pulled it open.

The smell of damp stone and earth washed over me.

I slipped inside and pulled the door shut.

I slid the iron bolt into place.

Outside, the storm roared, bending the branches of the hemlocks.

I sat down on an upturned wooden crate in the corner.

My hands were shaking.

I switched on the flashlight, keeping the beam pointed down at my lap.

The folder was damp, but the papers inside were dry.