But the cylinder turned with a heavy, familiar click.

I stepped inside the foyer and closed the door quietly behind me.

The air inside was warm and smelled of lemon polish and Hunter’s expensive woodsmoke cologne.

The grandfather clock in the hall ticked slowly.

“Hunter?” I called out.

My voice sounded small in the empty space.

No one answered.

I walked past the formal dining room.

The mahogany table was polished to a high shine, reflecting the gray afternoon light.

I climbed the carpeted stairs to the second floor.

I kept my weight near the wall to avoid the creaky floorboards.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I reached the second-floor landing and turned toward the study at the end of the hall.

The door was slightly ajar.

I pushed it open.

The room looked exactly as it had in the photo Hunter sent me.

My desk drawers were pulled open, their contents spilled onto the floor.

On the desk sat the ruins of my silver backup drive.

The plastic casing was cracked open, and the green circuit board inside was snapped in half.