Chapter Twenty-Five
The storm was angry.
According to my research, Bennett lived twenty-five miles outside of London—on the very same piece of land owned by Atkinson. It had one primary exit, off a small country lane near a village called Felmont. But online maps showed me a second road, a dirt track that wound through the woods and eventually fed out onto a tiny lane, five miles from the nearest main road.
Forty-five minutes after leaving Atkinson’s house, I found myself on the same dirt track, driving slowly—too slowly—meandering along it in the pouring rain. On two occasions, the back tires lost traction, spinning in the mud, but the old Toyota chewed up the miles.
The farm finally came into view—a few flat fields and a hillside covered with rain-flattened corn. The entrance up ahea
