Desmond and Peyton drove through the night. The fog was still heavy, but Peyton thought it was starting to lift. A constant breeze buffeted the car, as if they were driving through a giant wind tunnel. The road curved left and right as they went deeper into the mountains of Shetland.

At five hundred yards from the destination, a dirt road split off from the paved road. Desmond leaned over and saw on the phone that it led to the coordinates. He reached into his backpack and pulled the night vision goggles out. He cut the car’s headlights as he pulled the goggles on and started down the dirt road.

Three hundred yards later, he killed the engine.

“We’ll hike in.”

They walked along the tree line of the dirt road, which weaved through the forest seemingly arbitrarily. It ended in a clearing with a small cottage. There was no sign of life: no lights glowing through the windows, no smoke rising from the chimney. The rubble stone exterior was shades of gray and blue and purple; moss grew on the wooden roof. The place looked ancient, as if it had been built in the Middle Ages and abandoned.

In the dim light, Desmond gave Peyton a look that said, Stay here.

He didn’t wait for her to respond, merely handed her the key to the car and ran toward the cottage, rifle held at the ready.

Peyton held her breath as he went around the right side of the house. Ten seconds passed. Then twenty. Lights came on, the front door opened, and Desmond walked out onto the porch. He waved her toward the house.

When she reached the steps, he said, “You’ve gotta see this.”

She stepped inside—and stared.

Cork covered the walls, and pictures, articles, and scribbled notes were tacked everywhere. Peyton recognized some of the names: Rapture Therapeutics, Phaethon Genetics, Rook Quantum Sciences, Rendition Games. There were pictures of Desmond and Conner. She scanned the scribbled notes:

Invisible Sun — person, organization, or project?

What requires that much energy?

Third world used as a testing ground?

Some of the newspaper clippings went back as far as the eighties.

Whoever had lived here was obviously investigating the Citium. Had been for a long time. And they had only recently left. In the kitchen, dishes with food particles lay in the sink. On the kitchen island, a laptop sat closed.

“The place has power,” Desmond said, turning on a small space heater. Peyton was glad for the warmth. “There’s a solar array behind the house and likely on the back side of the roof. It’s completely off-grid though.”

Three filing cabinets lined one wall. Peyton was about to open the first when Desmond called out, “Over here.”

He stood in the living room, tapping his foot on a floorboard. “You hear that?”

Peyton shook her head. What’s he doing?