He wasn’t dressed like a delivery driver.

He was carrying a thick manila envelope.

He reached our front porch and looked directly into the camera lens.

My breath caught in my throat.

I recognized him.

He was the private investigator Lucas had hired three weeks ago.

The phone in my hand stopped ringing, then immediately started vibrating again with the same California number.

The man on the porch reached out and pressed the doorbell.

The chime echoed through our quiet house.

Chloe looked at me, her face pale.

“Anne,” she whispered. “Who is that?”

I didn’t answer.

I watched the laptop screen as the man on the porch reached into his coat pocket.

He pulled out a small, black electronic device.

He held it up to our keyless entry pad.

The keypad beeped twice.

A red light on our door lock turned solid green.

The sound of the deadbolt sliding open clicked through the hallway.

I stood frozen as the heavy oak door swung inward, letting in a swirl of freezing Denver air.

The investigator stepped into the foyer, his boots leaving wet, gray prints on the hardwood.