My father stared at me, his eyes widening.

“What?” he whispered.

“Elliot was paranoid,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “He didn’t keep the original will in the warehouse safe.”

“Then where is it?” my mother asked, her voice high and panicked.

“It’s in a safety deposit box at the Denver National Bank,” I said. “And Malcolm has the only key.”

My father’s face went completely pale.

“But the safe…” he stammered.

“The safe at the warehouse only had one thing in it,” I said, looking directly into his eyes.

“What?” he asked.

“The GPS trackers for the entire fleet,” I said. “And the security cameras.”

The phone in my hand began to ring, the loud, jarring sound breaking the silence of the room.

The screen showed the caller ID.

It was the Denver Police Department.

I looked at my father, whose hand was still covered in the soot of the burned note.

The wind outside howled, throwing a sheet of heavy snow against the window.

I swiped the green button to answer the call.

“Detective Harris,” I said into the receiver.