“Maren,” a quiet, dry voice called out from the doorway.

The shadow moved, and Mr. Voss stepped into the cabin.

He carried a small battery-powered lantern in one hand, his wool coat collar turned up against the mountain chill.

He looked pale, his eyes watering slightly from the wind.

I lowered my hand from my sidearm but did not relax my posture.

“You followed me, Mr. Voss,” I said.

“I did,” he said, closing the heavy oak door behind him. “Your stepfather has people watching the main roads. I wanted to ensure you arrived here without company.”

He set his lantern on a dusty wooden table near the door.

The yellow light filled the cabin, softening the sharp edges of the room.

“What is this place?” I asked, gesturing to the bare walls.

“Your father purchased this land thirty years ago,” Voss said, walking toward the hearth. “Before he met your mother. Before Dorian Pike ever entered the picture.”

He looked down at the raised floorboard.

“I see you found it,” he said.

“I found the box,” I said, kneeling back down on the cold floorboards. “But it is wedged tight.”