That date was exactly three days before the fatal crash.

Right under those numbers, in much smaller writing, were four words: “Check the maintenance log.”

Suddenly, a sharp snap echoed from the woods above me.

I scrambled to my feet, my eyes scanning the thick brush.

For one breathless moment, I fully expected to see someone standing up on the road watching me, but the shoulder was completely deserted.

Thick mist drifted silently between the trees, and a lone crow launched itself from a high branch with a loud, jarring caw.

I quickly shoved the photograph, the map, and the brass key into my bag, then hurried back up the muddy embankment to my car.