Page 94 of The Silent Hour

"Probably the ditch then," he suggested.

I knew better than to keep this line of conversation going. He'd start getting creative with how he came to be in the ditch next. We pulled closer to the heart of the site. Off to the left, concrete pads waited for foundations that would never be poured.

To the right, I noticed something else. Sections of ground that looked wrong. Too smooth, the dirt pressed flat but uneven in places. It was regraded—hasty and intentional. I said nothing, just eased the car to a stop.

Eric flicked a glance at me, then at the vast property in the distance. "So. What's the play?"

“We wait."

For a few minutes, we sat there in the dark. Insects chirred. My irritation mounted. Knox was supposed to be here. Instead, it felt like we were the ones being waited on.

"You stay out here. If Knox shows, or anyone else, you call. If something feels wrong, you call. The car stays running."

He smirked and adjusted his glasses, already checking the pistol at his back. "Daddy letting me babysit the perimeter."

I pulled on leather gloves I’d brought along, slid the envelope’s key into my pocket, checked my Colt, and grabbed one of the flashlights we'd brought along. I got out, Eric doing the same thing on the other side, but only I set off. The night closed in as I walked. My boots crunched across gravel as I swept the flashlight beam ahead, the skeletal outline of steel rising like ribs around me.

A tarp hung from a beam like a curtain and, when the wind hit it, it hid whatever was beyond. I lost sight of Eric within minutes; his silhouette had been visible near the car and then gone.

I kept going, the flashlight cutting through the dark until it opened out into a flatter stretch. The light swung wide and landed on it a slab of concrete poured in a far corner, recent enough that the edges hadn't fully scarred over. More blue tarps drooped from the beams above, blocking the full view. Whoever had been here had wanted parts hidden. I noted the location and walked a bit further, boots crunching.

I wasn't looking for anything particular, just casing the property to see what we were dealing with and trying to make sense of the GPS points Saint had written down, when a structure seemed to rise out of nowhere.

It was a trailer, sat tucked back near another unfinished slab, dull and small against the night. The faded number on the door matched the brass key in my pocket. I approached it slowly and climbed the steps. The lock turned smooth, as if it had been waiting for me to find it.

Inside the air hit me stale and sour. The light made everything look older. There was a bolted desk, a half-busted filing cabinet, blueprints rolled and curling, molded coffee cups like little fossils. Papers were scattered everywhere. I crouched, gloved fingers rifling through the mess. I didn't know what the fuck I was looking for. Saint hadn't been very specific.

What I did find were things most people wouldn't leave behind. Ledgers, wire transfers, incident reports with lines drawn through names. Accidents logged, then struck from the record. A payroll ledger with what I could almost guarantee were ghost employees. Transfer slips routed through most likely shell companies. It read like a messy manual for how you erase people and money.

A sudden noise made me freeze.

I killed the flashlight, plunging the trailer into darkness as my hand went automatically to my piece. There were sounds that meant danger and sounds that meant presence. This one was both. Footsteps crossed the gravel outside, then stopped at the bottom of the steps.

I shifted into the shadow beside the filing cabinet, gun already raised when the door opened. A woman's silhouette appeared in the doorway. I lifted the gun, and then I saw her face.

"Lila?"

She stopped dead, flinching back at sight of my gun. "Jesus Christ."

"What the fuck are you doing here, Marino?"

I lowered the gun, but not my temper. She stepped inside, eyes moving from the weapon to my face. She was dressed, nothing like she'd been at the office earlier. Jeans, boots, dark sweater, hair pulled back. A small flashlight was clenched in one hand, a leather cross-body bag against her hip.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"It looks like you're trying to get yourself shot."

"I didn't know you'd be here,” she hastily explained.

"Bullshit."

Her expression hardened. "Believe whatever makes you happy."

"How did you even find this place?"

"I was told to come here, which is why I didn’t think you’d be here too." She moved past me, sweeping her flashlight over the desk. "Someone wanted it to be found."

"Who?"