I looked up at the yellow light in the second-story window.

Shadows moved behind the thin lace curtains of Abigail’s old study.

I walked toward the side of the house, keeping away from the direct line of sight.

My heart thudded against my ribs, a slow, heavy rhythm.

I reached the edge of the porch.

The wooden steps were wet and slick with green moss.

I placed my foot down carefully, testing the boards for creaks.

They held my weight in silence.

I crept closer to the front door.

It was a heavy oak door with a brass handle shaped like an agave leaf.

The door was slightly ajar.

The brass lock plate was scratched, the wood around it splintered.

Mark had used a crowbar to force it open.

I slipped inside, my back pressing against the cold plaster wall of the foyer.

The air inside was stale and cold.

It smelled of old paper, lavender wax, and the damp mold of an old house.

But beneath that, I smelled something else.

Stale cigarette smoke and wet wool.

Mark was here.

A floorboard groaned directly above my head.