He placed the two papers side by side on the marble table.

“The last known photo of Sarah was taken by her kidnapper,” Marcus said, his voice quiet.

“We only recovered a digital copy of it from an anonymous server,” he added.

He pointed to the black-and-white photo of the door.

“This door was in the background of that photo,” Marcus said. “We never found the location.”

He then pointed back to the reflection in my recipe photo.

Even through the distortion of the pewter platter, the shape of the iron latch was unmistakable.

The heart-shaped rust stain was visible as a dark smudge in the exact same position.

“The latch on your basement door is a match, Mrs. Vance,” Marcus said.

The air in the foyer suddenly felt freezing cold.

I looked at the printout, then at the black-and-white photo, my mind spinning.

Three years ago, Julian and I had just bought this house.

He had spent months remodeling the basement, keeping the door locked because of “unsafe construction.”

“That is a very old latch,” Julian said, his voice remarkably calm beside me.