Miller pushed the door wide and stepped inside, his gun raised.

“Clear,” he called out a moment later.

I followed him into the entryway, Marisol right behind me.

The air inside was hot and smelled of old takeout and cheap cologne.

The air conditioner was turned off, making the condo feel like a humid tomb.

The living room was in complete shambles.

Drawers were pulled out of the sideboard, their contents spilled onto the white tile floor.

A half-empty bottle of rum sat on the kitchen counter next to a pile of dirty glasses.

“They left in a hurry,” Marisol said, stepping over a discarded dry-cleaning bag.

I walked down the hallway toward the master bedroom.

My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat echoing in my ears.

The closet doors were wide open.

Derek’s expensive suits were gone, leaving only empty plastic hangers clattering against each other in the breeze from the open window.

The dresser drawers were pulled out and empty, some thrown onto the floor.

Stephanie’s makeup bags were missing from the guest bathroom counter, a sticky ring of liquid foundation the only proof she had been there.