The high-beam headlights of the patrol car swept across us, blinding me for a second.

The engine roared to a halt, sending a cloud of dust and dry pine needles over the clearing.

Two doors slammed shut in rapid succession.

“Step away from her, Mr. Pike,” a loud, authoritative voice boomed through the trees.

It was the local sheriff, his hand resting flat on his holster as he stepped into the light.

Beside him stood a tall, thin man in a heavy wool overcoat.

Mr. Voss.

He carried a thick leather portfolio tucked under his arm.

His glasses reflected the harsh white glare of the patrol car’s headlights.

“Maren, are you alright?” Mr. Voss called out, his voice calm and steady despite the tension.

I got to my feet, brushing the dirt from my jeans, still holding the logbook close.

“I am fine,” I said, my voice shaking slightly from the adrenaline.

Dorian smoothed his expensive coat, trying to regain his composure.

“This is private property, Sheriff,” Dorian said, pointing a finger at me.

“She is trespassing, and she just assaulted me.”