I reached through the broken pane and turned the lock from the inside.

The door swung open with a heavy creak.

I stepped into the kitchen.

The air inside was thick and cold, smelling of mildew and stagnant water.

A layer of gray dust covered the counters and the floorboards.

I kept my flashlight pointed downward, using only the edge of the beam to light my path.

I walked through the dining room.

The long mahogany table was still there, covered in a plastic tarp that had gone yellow with age.

My mother’s favorite china cabinet was gone, probably liquidated during the seizure.

I made my way to the front hallway and climbed the stairs toward my father’s study.

Every step felt like a descent into a grave.

This house had been a shell, a front for the work he was doing right beneath our feet.

I reached the door of the study.

It was slightly ajar.

I pushed it open and stepped inside.

The room was stripped bare.

The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were empty, their dark wood stained where the books used to sit.