My glass palettes were reduced to glittering powder.

The destruction felt deeply personal.

It was a physical threat left behind by my ex-husband.

“Did he find what he wanted?” Adrian asked, his eyes scanning the chaos.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

I moved toward the large wooden drying rack built into the far brick wall.

It was a heavy, floor-to-ceiling structure made of thick pine.

Most of the horizontal shelves had been pulled out and thrown onto the floor.

But the intruders did not know how the rack was constructed.

I knelt on the dusty floor, ignoring the sharp pain of grit against my bare knees.

I reached my right hand beneath the bottommost support beam.

My fingers brushed against cold, greasy iron.

I found the small metal latch hidden behind the baseboard.

I pulled the latch hard to the left.

A secret compartment at the very bottom of the rack popped open with a dull click.

Inside lay a thick, black leather-bound book.

It was covered in a heavy layer of gray dust, but it was dry and intact.

“It’s still here,” I breathed.