I slipped inside, pulling the slatted door shut until only a tiny crack remained.

The smell of cedar and lavender sheets enveloped me.

Through the slats, I saw my father walk out of the study.

He looked older, his shoulders hunched under his gray wool coat.

He held a leather folder under his arm.

He didn’t look toward the closet.

He walked down the stairs, his heavy footsteps fading as he headed toward the lower level of the house.

I waited until I heard the kitchen door creak open and shut.

I pushed the closet door open and stepped back into the hallway.

The house was dead silent again.

I hurried into the study.

The room was in shambles.

Drawers were pulled out, their contents spilled across the mahogany desk.

I turned on the small desk lamp, keeping the shade tilted low to avoid throwing light through the window.

A stack of bank statements lay near the brass trash can.

I picked them up.

They were corporate accounts for the Cumberland Avenue restaurant group.

On the top page, several routing numbers were circled in red ink.