His footsteps faded as the heavy iron door groaned shut behind him.

I waited in the dark for five long minutes.

My hands were trembling so much I could barely hold my flashlight.

I stuffed the thick folder inside my cleaning cart, hiding it beneath the dirty rags.

I needed to get out of the hospital.

The night air was freezing when I finally stepped out of the service exit.

Snow was starting to fall over Chicago, dusting the pavement with white.

I took a bus back to Lake Forest.

The Whitmore mansion loomed black against the winter sky.

Only one window was lit on the second floor.

It was the study.

I let myself in through the kitchen door.

The house was silent, smelling of lavender polish and old wood.

I walked up the carpeted stairs, holding the folder under my coat.

I knocked softly on the study door.

“Come in,” Ethan’s voice called out.

He was sitting behind his mahogany desk.

A glass of amber scotch sat untouched near his hand.

He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and dark with exhaustion.