“YOU’RE AWFULLY QUIET,” QUINN said as we pulled onto the final stretch of highway on our way back to Atoka in the steadily falling snow.

The pristine landscape illuminated by our headlights looked peaceful and serene. Traffic on I-95 heading north had slowed because of the slick roads and limited visibility. Every so often a snowplow passed us and trucks lumbered by dispersing liquid snowmelt or salt. Inside, the Jeep was a comforting cocoon; the heater blasted warm air and my feet had finally thawed. I’d found a satellite radio station playing Christmas holiday classics and Bing Crosby was crooning “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” The windshield wipers swishing back and forth kept time like a muted metronome.

“I’m thinking about everything we saw today,” I said, “and all the reasons Josie gave us why there was no secret trove of documents that Nathaniel Bacon smuggled into Jamestown. And no hidden vault under Bruton Parish.”

Quinn put on his turn signal and changed lanes to let a car pass us. “Yes, but in spite of those reasons you still believe the documents exist,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

“I think Prescott believed they did. And Hobson Banks’s letter in Leland’s safe-deposit box talked about something of value Banks removed from the White House before the British showed up to burn it.”

“Sweetheart, Banks could have been referring to anything. Everything in the White House is valuable, isn’t it? And I wasn’t asking about Prescott.” He gave me a meaningful look. “I was asking about you.”

“I know you were.”

“So?”

The song changed and the display on the radio read Doris Day … Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.

“I know Clay thinks Prescott was starting to lose it and that he was becoming mentally unstable, but I don’t believe it. First, Clay has the best reason of all for wanting to prove he’s right—so he can challenge Prescott’s decisions, like his plans to sell the Trib. Second, I think Prescott was as sharp as a tack. He knew exactly what he was saying, hinting about the final missing piece he’d discovered so he could find a hidden treasure,” I said. “He also said it was time to shine a light on something that had been hidden in the darkness for too long. And then he said something that’s been stuck in my brain—a proverb. ‘Truth is the daughter of time.’”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That was only part of it … I don’t remember the rest.” I reached for my phone, flicked it on, and started searching. A moment later, I said, “Here it is. ‘Truth is the daughter of time, not of authority.’ And you’ll never guess who it’s attributed to.”

“Thomas Jefferson?”

“Sir Francis Bacon.”

His eyebrows went up. “Maybe it’s a coincidence.”

“Seriously?”