“No,” Julian agreed, turning off his headlights and coasting to a stop under the canopy of a weeping willow. “It belongs to Marjorie.”

We got out of the car, shutting the doors with soft, muted clicks.

The wind rustled the dead leaves on the lawn, the sound mimicking footsteps behind us.

We crept along the side of the stone facade, keeping our bodies close to the cold masonry.

My hand shook as I slid the heavy brass key into the pantry door lock.

It turned with a stiff, metallic grind.

I pushed the door open, and the scent of lavender and old floor wax washed over me.

“Inside,” I breathed, pulling Julian behind me into the dark kitchen.

We did not turn on the overhead lights.

Julian pulled out a small pocket flashlight and clicked it on, keeping the beam pointed directly at the floor.

“The office is on the second floor, down the east wing,” I said.

We walked softly across the parquet floors of the dining room.

The white sheets covering the furniture looked like quiet ghosts in the dim light.