The police formed a plan.
I would appear to arrive alone at the abandoned Davis warehouse, while Beckett’s team surrounded the property. Wyatt was ordered to remain at the hospital.
He ignored that order.
At 10:05 p.m., I stepped out of an unmarked car beneath cold rain, wearing a dark coat over my hospital clothes. Bandages covered the left side of my face.
The warehouse stood at the end of an empty industrial road, its upper structure blackened by the fire that had supposedly destroyed it twelve years earlier.
But beneath the ruins, a faint line of white light glowed from the ground.
I held the brass key tightly.
“Sadie,” Beckett’s voice whispered through the receiver hidden beneath my collar. “We are in position.”
I walked toward a rusted steel door buried behind a collapsed wall.
