Downstairs, the front door creaked open, and more footsteps echoed in the hallway.

“We need to go downstairs,” Deputy Miller said, gesturing toward the hatchway.

“The crime scene unit is here to secure the attic.”

I guided Megan toward the ladder.

She was trembling so hard she could barely find the rungs with her shoes.

I followed her down, my hands gripping the cold wooden rails.

The air in the main hallway of Waverly Lane felt different now.

The heavy, suffocating silence that had hung over the house for weeks was gone.

It was replaced by the sharp smell of rain and the crackle of police radios.

We walked into the living room, where the amber light of the floor lamps cast long shadows.

On the sideboard, the framed photograph of Aunt Claire looked back at us.

She looked poised and elegant in her pearls, her smile cool and guarded.

I picked up the frame and turned it face down on the polished wood.

“We just got confirmation,” Deputy Miller said, walking into the room.

He was looking at a notepad.