By the time we pulled up to the red-brick townhouse on Beacon Hill, the rain had slowed to a drizzle.

The street was quiet, the gas lamps casting long, flickering shadows on the wet cobblestones.

I walked up the stone steps, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I knew the security code to Daniel’s townhouse; he had given it to me weeks ago when he thought we were partners.

My fingers trembled slightly as I punched the numbers into the brass keypad.

The lock clicked open.

I stepped inside and shut the heavy oak door behind me, holding my breath.

The house was dark and smelled of beeswax, old paper, and stale scotch.

My boots made no sound on the thick Persian rugs as I climbed the stairs to his study.

The room was cold, lit only by the pale glow of the streetlights filtering through the sheer curtains.

I walked straight to the antique mahogany desk in the corner.

Daniel was meticulous, but he was also arrogant.

He believed his home was impenetrable.

I opened the bottom drawer, feeling behind the false back I had noticed during my last visit.