“Dorian is already there,” I added. “He has a gas can.”

There was a brief pause on the line, the sound of papers rustling in his office.

“I have already contacted Sheriff Deputy Miller,” Mr. Voss said.

“He is heading up the south trail now.”

“Do not engage Dorian yourself, Maren.”

“He is desperate, and desperate men are unpredictable.”

I shifted gears as the road curved sharply to the left.

The headlights swept across tall pine trees and gray limestone boulders.

“I know exactly what he is,” I said.

“He wants to erase my father’s journals.”

“The ones he couldn’t find in the main house.”

“They are safe,” Voss assured me.

“But the cabin itself holds physical proof of his embezzlement of your father’s trusts.”

“If that shed burns, we lose the paper trail of the offshore accounts.”

I looked back at the screen.

Dorian was splashing liquid onto the dry wooden siding of the tool shed.

The smell of gasoline seemed to drift through my vents, though I knew it was just my imagination.

“He won’t burn it,” I said.