“Maybe it was just another tenant visiting their unit,” Paige whispered nervously.

“Maybe,” I agreed, though my instincts told me otherwise.

“Do you want to pack up and get out of here right now?” she asked.

I looked down at the open bins, the voice recorder, and the priceless evidence Brandon had preserved for five long years.

“No, not until we’ve checked everything,” I insisted stubbornly.

We kept searching through the remaining items, moving as quickly and quietly as we could.

In the top drawer of the metal filing cabinet, I found a thick folder labeled “Project C-17.” It held photocopied county survey maps, a list of names, and a small envelope sealed with clear tape.