Their wet branches brushed against the sides of my car as I drove up the gravel path.

The house was a two-story colonial, dark against the gray sky.

No lights were on.

I parked near the garage and kept the headlights on, illuminating the front porch.

The front door was closed, but the brass lock looked slightly scratched.

I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out my flashlight.

My hand was cold, the metal of the flashlight casing freezing against my palm.

I got out of the car, leaving the door open so the headlights would stay on.

The gravel crunched under my boots as I walked to the porch.

The air smelled of wet earth and decaying leaves.

I reached the front door and pushed it.

It was unlocked.

The lock mechanism had been cleanly picked, the brass scraped near the keyhole.

I stepped into the dark hallway, my flashlight beam cutting through the dust.

The house was silent, save for the sound of the rain on the roof.

I held my breath, listening for any sound of movement upstairs.

Nothing.