My stomach twisted into a hard knot. “Is he alone?”

“We haven’t made contact yet,” Officer Miller said. “But his vehicle is in the driveway. We will enter first to secure the area.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Thomas helped me out of the car and back into the wheelchair.

The cold rain felt like tiny needles against my bare face.

We walked up the winding concrete driveway, flanked by the two officers.

Ryan’s sports car was parked crookedly near the garage, one of the doors slightly ajar.

A half-empty bottle of scotch sat on the hood, water pooling around its base.

The heavy oak front door of the mansion was unlocked, resting open by a few inches.

Officer Miller pushed the door open with his gloved hand.

“Denver Police,” he announced loudly, stepping into the grand foyer. “We are entering the residence.”

The only response was the steady drip of water from our coats onto the polished marble floor.

The house was freezing.

The thermostat had been turned down, or the heat was off entirely.

A strange, sharp smell hung in the air.