“But Caleb was near the trunk.”

Sloan knelt on the damp pavement, her dark trousers touching the wet asphalt without hesitation.

She reached under the rear bumper, her fingers tracing the inner lip of the metal frame.

Her hand stopped near the left wheel well.

“Here,” she said.

She pulled her hand back, holding a small, rectangular black box.

It was about the size of a cigarette pack, fitted with two round, silver magnets that were coated in road grit.

“A magnetic key box,” I said.