Richard Hale had been my mother’s boss for nineteen years.

That morning, he’d hugged me at her funeral.

I’d thanked him for coming.

Outside, something scraped against the lock.

I opened the file box at my feet.

Inside were labeled folders, a flash drive taped under the lid, bank records, copied documents, and one red folder stuffed with wire transfer records and signatures.

Then I saw the back wall.

A sheet of plywood covered part of it.

Behind the plywood, a section of chain-link fence already cut open.

My mother had built herself an escape route.

The man outside spoke again.

“Open the unit, Emily. Your mother is dead because she stopped cooperating.”

That sentence told me everything.

She hadn’t simply died.

Someone had made it happen.

I grabbed the red folder, pushed the plywood aside, and crawled through the fence. The wire tore my blouse, but I kept moving.

Behind me, someone slammed against the unit door.

I ran through weeds along a drainage path until I hit the service road near the highway.

Then my phone buzzed again.

Two more texts from my mother’s number.

Go to Daniel Brooks. County Recorder’s Office. Trust no one else.

A minute later:

And Emily, if Hale finds you first, burn everything.