I placed my palm against the heavy wood of the door.

I pushed it open slowly.

The hinges groaned.

The interior of the carriage house was dark, except for the single lamp on the workbench.

Dust motes danced in the beam of light.

The air was thick with the scent of old leather, oil, and dry rot.

In the corner, the metal lockbox sat open on the floorboards.

The red light on the transmitter was still glowing.

Beside the box, a figure stood in the shadows.

They were wearing a dark raincoat, the hood pulled low over their face.

They held a black canvas bag in their right hand.

“Drop the bag,” I said.

The figure stiffened.

They did not drop the bag.

Instead, they turned slowly toward me.

Under the hood, I saw the glint of wire-rimmed glasses.

It was the family’s chief financial officer, Arthur Pendelton.

He looked old, his skin pale and papery in the dim light.

“Allison,” Arthur said, his voice trembling.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.

“Neither should you, Arthur,” I said.

“The marshals are out front,” I added.