I went down to the garage, got into my car, and drove toward the high-end neighborhood where the Harrow estate sat.

The rain was coming down in sheets now, the windshield wipers struggling to keep up.

As I approached the iron gates of the estate, I noticed they were standing wide open.

I parked my car at the edge of the long gravel driveway and walked toward the main house.

The massive stone columns of the mansion looked dark and imposing under the storm clouds.

I walked up the stone steps and pushed the heavy oak front door open.

It wasn’t locked.

The grand foyer was dead quiet, the only sound being the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

The air smelled of stale scotch and old paper.

I walked toward the study, the heels of my boots clicking softly on the marble floor.

Through the double doors, I saw the family gathered.

Grant was standing by the wet bar, a half-empty glass of amber liquid in his hand.

His tie was undone, and his white shirt was wrinkled and stained at the collar.