We got into the sedan, and Ethan started the engine.

He threw the sealed envelope onto the leather seat between us.

His breathing was shallow and fast.

“We have it,” he said, staring at the red wax seal.

“We have the truth.”

He put the car in drive and pulled out of the alley.

My eyes were fixed on the envelope.

We drove a few blocks away from the archive building before Ethan pulled over under a broken streetlight.

The snow was thick on the windshield, blocking out the rest of the world.

The car engine hummed, keeping us warm against the winter chill.

Ethan reached for the envelope.

His fingers traced the red wax seal.

“If I open this, there is no going back,” he said.

“Do you want to go back?” I asked him.

He looked at me, his eyes reflecting the blue light of the dashboard.

“No,” he said.

He slipped his thumb under the seal and ripped the paper open.

The sound of tearing paper seemed loud in the small car.

He pulled out a stack of thick white pages.