It was entirely empty.

Suddenly, my cell phone screen lit up on the counter.

It was not a call.

It was a text from an unknown number.

I walked over and picked it up.

It was an image file.

I tapped it to download.

The photo showed the front gate of the cottage road, taken from inside a car.

The wipers were clearing rain from the windshield.

Below the photo, a single line of text appeared.

“The gate was unlocked.”

My thumb hovered over the glass screen of my phone.

The rain lashed against the kitchen window, loud and rhythmic.

I stared at the image of the gravel road and the iron gate.

My breath caught in my throat.

I backed away from the window, my shoulder blades pressing against the cold wooden door of the pantry.

I pressed the speed dial for Lydia Monroe.

It rang twice before her sharp, clear voice filled the quiet kitchen.

“Elena,” she said. “Are you safe?”

“Someone is at the gate,” I whispered.

“I know,” Lydia said. “It is Julian and Martin Bell.”