I looked up at the ceiling.

The plaster was cracked in thin, spiderweb patterns.

Another heavy step vibrated through the wood.

He was pacing in the study.

I walked slowly into the living room.

The furniture was covered in white dust sheets, looking like silent ghosts in the dark.

My foot hit something hard on the floor.

I looked down.

It was a silver picture frame, lying face down on the rug.

The glass was shattered.

I knelt and picked it up.

It was a photograph of me when I was ten, sitting on Abigail’s lap under the big oak tree.

Mark had thrown it.

I set the broken frame on a side table.

The anger inside me grew warmer, pushing out the cold fear.

He had no right to be here.

He had no right to touch any of this.

I made my way to the base of the staircase.

The banister was smooth under my hand, cold mahogany that Abigail had polished every spring.

I took the first step.

It made no sound.

I took the second step.

A low mumble came from the room upstairs.