She grabbed her coat from the back of the leather chair.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I said.

We left the study and walked quickly toward the grand staircase.

The air in Darrow House always felt colder in the evenings, especially in the unused wings.

Rain began to tap against the leaded glass windows of the long gallery corridor.

Our footsteps were muffled by the thick Persian runners as we hurried down the hall.

As we neared the West Gallery, the sound of tearing packing tape echoed through the quiet house.

The heavy oak doors were propped open with a bronze doorstop.

Inside, the room was brightly lit by the overhead spotlights.

Philip stood near the marble fireplace, holding a clipboard and checking off items.

The man in the trench coat was carefully lifting a small, gilt-framed portrait from the velvet-lined wall.

It was the eighteenth-century portrait of Julian Whitaker, my great-uncle.

“Put it back, Philip,” I said, stepping into the room.

Philip jumped, nearly dropping his clipboard onto the hardwood floor.

The mover paused, holding the heavy gold frame a few inches from the wall.