He was seventy, but anger seemed to give him the strength of a younger man.

We reached the back of the library bookcase.

My father pushed the hidden latch.

The bookcase swung outward, letting in the warm, bright light of the library.

The smell of leather and beeswax was a stark contrast to the damp basement.

We stepped out into the room.

The house was quiet, but from the corridor leading to the kitchen, we could hear Patricia’s voice.

It was rising in volume.

“I want you out of this house immediately,” Patricia was saying.

We walked quickly down the hallway.

The Persian rugs muffled our footsteps.

As we approached the kitchen entrance, I could see Vance standing by the door frame.

He looked back and saw us.

His eyes widened slightly behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

He reached out to touch Patricia’s shoulder to warn her.

But Patricia was already in the middle of her speech.

She was holding a small silver velvet pouch in her hand.

“And you will leave your bags at the door for security to search,” Patricia said to Rosa.