“Open the door, Meredith!” he screamed.

He sounded desperate now, stripped of his usual polished charm.

I looked at the heavy iron shovel leaning against the wall.

I reached out and gripped the wooden handle.

My knuckles turned white.

“I’m going to count to three,” Trevor said from the other side of the wood.

“One.”

I raised the shovel.

“Two.”

A loud splintering sound echoed through the small space as the wood around the lock began to give way.

“Three!”

The door burst open, swinging wildly on its hinges.

The beam of his flashlight hit my eyes, blinding me.

I raised my arm to shield my face.

Through the glare, I saw his dark silhouette standing in the doorway.

He was dripping wet, his hair plastered to his forehead.

His eyes were wide and frantic.

“Give it to me,” he said, stepping into the springhouse.

He held out his hand.

“Stay back, Trevor,” I said, holding the shovel in front of me.

He looked at the shovel, then looked at the folder tucked under my arm.

A cold smile touched his lips.