I walked along the edge of the lawn, keeping close to the hedges.

As I neared the side entrance of the house, I noticed a vehicle parked near the garage.

It was tucked away in the deep shadows, almost completely hidden by the overgrown ivy.

I crept closer, my heart pounding in my ears.

The moonlight broke through the fog for a brief second.

It illuminated the metallic paint of the car.

It was a silver Volvo.

I stopped in my tracks.

I knew that car.

It belonged to my father, Arthur.

He wasn’t at his downtown apartment.

He was here.

And he was here in the dark.

I approached the driver’s side window and peered inside.

The glove compartment was open, papers scattered across the passenger seat.

A leather folder sat on the dashboard, bearing the logo of our restaurant empire.

I reached out and touched the hood of the car.

It was still warm.

He had arrived only minutes before me.

A light suddenly flickered in the second-floor window of the study.

It was a soft, yellow glow, like a flashlight beam moving across the walls.