The headlights from the sedan remained bright, casting long, distorted shadows of all of us across the gravel driveway.

The figure walking toward the iron gate stopped a few feet from the bars.

“Sir, it is done,” a voice from the phone said, loud enough for me to hear in the quiet night.

Lorenzo lowered the phone but did not put it away.

“Open the gate, Hunter,” he said to me.

My fingers were stiff from the cold as I reached for the security panel on the stone pillar.

I punched in the code.

The heavy iron gates began to groan, parting slowly to let the cold wind sweep through the gap.

The man from the sedan stepped into the light of the courtyard.

It was Evan Morris.

Behind him, two other men in dark overcoats followed, their hands resting near their hips.

They were state investigators, their gold badges catching the glare of the high beams.

Evan looked pale, his scarf tucked high around his neck, holding a thick leather portfolio against his chest.

“I have the transfer records, Mr. Rossi,” Evan said.