Emma restrains herself, nods. “Yes. I mean, I can follow instructions.”

“Stay here,” Cooper says. “That’s instruction number one.”

He looks at them both, shakes his head, and turns away. For a moment, Emma thinks he’s fixing to block them and walk. But he’s simply retrieving two packages from the open back of a nearby white van. When he returns, he hands them the plastic-wrapped packets.

“Put these on. There should be booties. I’m going to find someone to give you an escort.”

He leaves again, heading back toward the doorway of the red storehouse.

Emma turns to Bell, wanting to jump up and down, careful not to. “Holy shit.”

Bell lets out an immense breath. “Jesus, I can’t believe that worked.”

She grabs a handful of plastic packaging and yanks it away. “Hurry up, let’s do this before he changes his mind.”

Bell moves equally quickly. The hazmat suits inside the wrapping are a kind of durable blue paper, and they’re a little awkward to step into—once Emma ditches Bell’s jacket on top of a nearby gallon drum, it’s easier. They fit their booties over their shoes.

Cooper returns with a young man who’s also in Tyvek, his huge camera slung around his neck by a wide strap. “This is Henry Burns, he’s the county ME photographer.”

“Hi,” Henry says, makes a little wave. He’s about twenty-five and looks like he’d be friendly under different circumstances. As things stand, he’s pale-faced and solemn.

“Mr. Burns is going to take you inside,” Cooper says. “People are working in there. Don’t disrupt them, and don’t talk to them. Don’t go more than three feet into the interior of the building. Stick to the wall if you can.”

“Yes, sir,” Bell says.

“You can’t take anything in. No notepads, pencils, nothing. Don’t touch anything. I mean it—if you touch anything, Gerry will have you inked up for fingerprints before you can blink, and I don’t want any record of you ever having been in there, d’you understand?”

“Yes,” Emma says. “No touching. Got it.”

“Get under the tape.”

Cooper holds the tape up for them. Once they’ve breached that barrier, Emma feels a chill—they’re getting closer. To what, she doesn’t want to imagine.

Instead of leading them to the tin door, which is a mess of personnel and tape rolls and piles of equipment, Cooper walks them around to the left. There’s no noticeable path, but the way is marked by the pressed-down fronds of ryegrass and devil’s tail vine.

Far at the back, out of sight of the main quarry area, a wide piece of water-stained corrugated iron is pulled up like the curling cover of a paperback novel to make a sneak’s door.

“This is where Cleary entered?” Bell asks.

“Yes.” Cooper turns to them. “And it’s where the perpetrator entered. You’ll be seeing it as he saw it. This is a disused outbuilding. The owners have this part of the site security-checked, but only once a month and then just the exteriors. If Cleary hadn’t walked into it, it might never have been discovered.”