His voice was closer now, right against the glass pane of the door.

I heard the sharp sound of metal scraping against metal.

He was picking the lock, or trying to force it with a tool from his pocket.

I shoved the photograph into my apron pocket.

I grabbed the ledger and the deeds and pushed them back into the dark cavity behind the stove.

I swung the loose wooden plank shut.

The hidden hinge clicked into place.

Just then, the front door handle began to turn.

The brass knob rotated slowly, then stopped as the latch caught.

A heavy shoulder slammed against the wood from the outside.

The lock mechanism gave way with a splintering screech.

The door swung open, letting in a gust of cold Oakhill night air.

A tall silhouette stood in the doorway, framed by the yellow porch light.

He stepped into the hallway.

Marcus stepped over the threshold, his heavy boots leaving wet, muddy prints on my clean linoleum floor.

He was a broad-shouldered man, wearing a canvas work jacket that smelled of damp sawdust and cheap tobacco.