The muffled sound of voices came from behind the wood.

I walked toward the light.

My wet jacket dripped water onto the polished floor.

I put my hand on the brass lever of the door and pushed it open.

The room inside was a spacious library with leather-bound books lining the walls from floor to ceiling.

A fire crackled in a large stone hearth, casting a restless orange glow over the room.

Three men stood near a mahogany desk.

Charles Whitmore stood in the center, holding a glass of amber liquid.

His wife, Evelyn, sat in a velvet armchair near the fire, her face pale and tight.

Beside Charles stood Sheriff Daniel Mercer, his hand resting on the butt of his holstered pistol.

The third man was older, wearing a tailored charcoal suit with a silver pin on his lapel.

I recognized him from the news.

He was Senator Thomas, a powerful figure on the Senate Armed Services Committee.

“Arthur,” Charles said, his voice dripping with condescension.

He did not look surprised to see me, only annoyed.

“You are trespassing on private property,” Charles said.