On the screen, the man at the gate held a yellow envelope up to the camera lens.

Written on the front in bold, black marker was my name: *EMILY*.

He dropped the envelope into the secure mail slot at the gate.

Then, he looked directly into the camera lens and smiled.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a key.

Even through the low-resolution feed, I recognized it.

It was the brass key to my townhouse.

The man unlocked the pedestrian side-gate, which should have been deadbolted from the inside.

He stepped through the gate, disappearing into the shadows of the estate grounds.

Richard stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor.

“We have to go,” he said, grabbing his keys.

My phone in my purse began to vibrate against my leg.

I pulled it out with shaking hands.

The screen lit up with a text message from an unknown number.

I tapped it open.

It was a photograph.

It showed the hallway outside my daughters’ bedroom.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar, a warm sliver of light spilling onto the carpet.