It turned easily in my grip.

The door was already unlocked.

I looked at Adrian in the dim light of the hallway.

He saw the scratched lock and stepped in front of me, his hand slipping into his coat pocket.

He pushed the door open slowly.

The hinges gave a faint, high-pitched whine.

A sliver of yellow light spilled out from inside the studio.

Someone was in there.

Adrian pushed the door wider.

The hinges screeched in the quiet hallway.

I stepped into the room behind him, my bare feet pressing against the cold, gritty hardwood.

The yellow light came from a single brass desk lamp left burning in the far corner.

The rest of my old workspace was in complete ruins.

My steel filing cabinets had been tipped over onto their faces.

The metal drawers were bent outward, their locks forced with a crowbar.

Thousands of white restoration records littered the floor like fallen leaves.

My heart sank as I looked at the heavy oak easel in the center of the room.

Someone had slashed the canvas I had left behind years ago.