They walked back down the steps, across the gravel, and the car door opened again.

The engine roared to life, and the sedan backed out of the driveway, its tires spitting gravel against the wooden siding of the cabin.

I stood frozen for a full minute, listening to the sound of the engine fade into the distance of the country road.

Once the silence returned, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

I walked over to the door and picked up the white envelope.

It was thick, heavy stock, with no address written on the front.

Clara stepped out of the hallway, her face pale in the dim light of the laptop.

“What is it?” she asked.

I tore the envelope open.

Inside was a single sheet of paper and a small, silver USB drive.

I unfolded the paper.

It was a printed copy of my own bank statement from this morning.

Across the top, someone had written a single line in black ink: *You have forty-eight hours to execute the agreement.*

They knew where we were.

They had been watching my accounts.