I sat in a corner booth facing the door.

I ordered black coffee and took out a notepad.

I drew a rough sketch of the Prescott estate from memory.

I had visited Emily there once, right after the wedding, before Margaret barred me from the property.

The house was a three-story Georgian brick structure.

The library was on the east wing of the first floor, facing the formal gardens.

“Behind the false paneling in the east wall,” Sarah had said.

I tapped my pen against the table.

The perimeter of the estate was protected by an eight-foot stone wall topped with wrought-iron spikes.

There were motion sensors along the tree line.

Three security guards patrolled the grounds at night.

They were private contractors, mostly ex-military or retired cops.

But I had spent twenty-four years in the Army.

I knew how to map patrol routes.

I knew how to find blind spots in camera sweeps.

The waiter set down a thick white mug.

“Refill?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” I said.

He nodded and walked away.

I pulled up my phone and searched for Brandon Prescott.