The black-and-white night-vision footage showed a figure moving through the trees near the tool shed.

The figure was carrying a red plastic can.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I recognized the heavy, limping gait of my stepfather.

He stopped at the wooden door of the shed, reaching into his pocket for a lighter.

A tiny flame flickered on the screen, illuminating his face for a brief second.

I pressed my foot harder onto the gas pedal, the engine roaring as the SUV began the steep climb up the mountain pass.

I kept one eye on the winding road and the other on the phone mounted to the dashboard.

The signal was weak, but the video stream of the tool shed remained steady.

Dorian bent down, unscrewing the yellow cap of the gasoline can.

I tapped the steering wheel and hit the speed-dial for Mr. Voss.

He answered on the second ring, his voice sharp and clear despite the static of the mountain reception.

“Maren, where are you?” he asked.

“I am ten minutes out from the cabin,” I said.