My fingers brushed against something hard and cold taped to the underside of the desk frame.

I leaned down, squinting into the shadow of the drawer cavity.

Before I could reach in again, a sudden, heavy sound echoed from the floor below.

It was the sound of the heavy oak front door swinging open and striking the plaster wall of the foyer.

I froze, my hand still inside the desk drawer.

The house was supposed to be locked.

I listened, my breath catching in my throat.

Slow, deliberate footsteps began to cross the hardwood floor of the entryway.

The floorboards creaked under a heavy weight, moving toward the stairs.

I pulled my hand out of the drawer, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I reached for my phone on the desk, but the screen was dark, the battery dead.

The footsteps reached the bottom of the staircase, starting up the wooden steps one by one.

I held my breath, listening to the heavy thud of leather shoes on the stairs.

The fifth step creaked, a sharp, familiar groan that I had known since childhood.