Mr. White's sedan rolled to a stop three hundred meters from Dana's mansion, the engine's low rumble cutting through the salty night air like a hesitant confession, disrupting the silence. There was no human presence around us.
Tires crunched on the gravel shoulder of the coastal road, headlights dimming to avoid drawing eyes from the distant estate. "This is as close as we get, Alice," he muttered, his grizzled face etched with worry under the dashboard glow, cigar stub clenched between yellowed teeth.
"Well, that's the designated point. Thank you, Mr. White," I muttered, with a smile on my face, illuminated by the moonlight falling over our faces.
The mansion squatted on the cliffside ahead, a hulking silhouette of turrets and floodlit lawns, its windows flickering like watchful eyes.
