The door swung open.

A sliver of hallway light cut across the dusty Persian rug.

Graham stepped into the room.

He held a small flashlight in one hand, the beam bouncing off the mahogany bookshelves and the framed family portraits.

He smelled of cold rain and expensive gin.

“Claire?” he whispered.

His voice was low, strained with an unnatural quiet that made my skin crawl.

I stayed perfectly still behind the drapes, barely daring to breathe.

He moved toward the desk, his leather shoes clicking softly on the hardwood where the rug did not reach.

He shone the flashlight directly onto the desktop, illuminating the scattered papers and the empty glass I had left behind.

He was looking for the secret drawer, but he did not know the trick to the molding.

He cursed under his breath, a sharp, bitter sound.

His fingers tapped against the polished wood, a rapid, nervous rhythm that I had heard a thousand times when he was keeping a secret.

Then his phone vibrated in his pocket.

He snatched it out, the screen casting a harsh blue glow over his face.