“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “He had a hunting rifle in the study closet. I don’t know if he took it.”

The second officer stepped out of the adjoining bathroom, shaking his head.

“Nursery is clear,” he said. “But the master bedroom is just as bad.”

I unlocked the wheels of my chair and pushed myself forward, ignoring the dull ache in my pelvic floor.

Thomas reached down and helped guide the chair over the threshold, his grip steady on the rubber handles.

We moved down the hallway, past the family photos that had been ripped from the walls and shattered on the floor.

Our wedding photo was among them, the glass spiderwebbed over Ryan’s smiling face.

We entered the master bedroom.

The mattress had been dragged off the bed frame and sliced open with a knife, the white stuffing spilling out like snow.

My dresser had been tipped over, my clothes pulled from the drawers and strewn across the room.

But Ryan’s side of the closet was empty.

His designer suits, his Italian leather shoes, and his luggage were gone.