“Yes,” Mr. Voss said. “He spent days reinforcing the cabin from the inside.”

“I should leave you to look around, but the sheriff will stay at the gate tonight to make sure Pike does not return.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Mr. Voss walked back to his car, and the sheriff drove down to the main gate.

I was left alone in the mountain silence.

The wind howled through the pines, shaking the branches overhead and casting long shadows.

I walked up the creaking wooden steps of the cabin porch.

The padlock on the door had been cut by Dorian’s crew, hanging loose on the metal latch.

I pushed the heavy oak door open.

The air inside was cold and smelled of old paper, dust, and dried cedar.

I pulled my small tactical flashlight from my belt and switched it on.

The beam of light cut through the darkness, illuminating dust motes dancing in the cold air.

A simple stone hearth stood against the far wall of the main room.

In front of it lay a worn woolen rug, faded and dusty.