We stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind us.

The elevator was an old freight cage, too slow and too loud for a quiet entry.

“We take the stairs,” I whispered.

Adrian agreed with a silent nod.

We climbed the wooden steps, our shadows stretching long against the peeling wallpaper of the stairwell.

My heels made too much noise, so I slipped them off and held them in my left hand.

The wood was cold against my bare feet.

On the third floor, the hallway was completely dark.

The air was thick with the faint, lingering scent of turpentine and linseed oil from my old workspace.

It was a familiar smell, but tonight it felt cold and foreboding.

We walked down the corridor toward the door at the very end.

My brass nameplate, *Claire Sterling Art Conservation*, was still mounted on the wood.

It was slightly crooked.

I reached out to put my key into the brass deadbolt lock.

My hand stopped.

The brass plate around the keyhole was scratched.

Fresh, bright metal showed through the weathered patina.

I touched the doorknob.