It takes longer than I want.
Long enough for doubt to creep back in, long enough for the weight of what we might be about to uncover to press down hard, but then Atticus stills suddenly, his attention snapping to a panel behind the desk that does not sit quite flush with the wall.
“Axel,” he says quietly, and I am there in an instant.
The panel slides open with a soft click, revealing a narrow compartment stuffed with documents and photographs, and the sight of it makes something cold settle deep in my stomach. Atticus pulls the contents out carefully, spreading them across the desk, and my breath catches hard when I see what they are.
Photographs.
Of a farmhouse.
Different angles. Different times of day. Close ups of doors and windows and the surrounding tree line. There are maps to
