“She’s gone!” a man shouted from the terrace.

“She went into the garden!”

Beam lights began to sweep across the wet lawn, cutting through the darkness.

“Bishop, this way,” I whispered, heading toward the iron fence.

The fence separated the estate from the public park.

The dog ran ahead, his powerful legs driving him through the mud.

He knew exactly where he was going.

It was as if he had run this path a hundred times before.

We reached the iron fence.

A section of the metal bars was bent wide enough for a person to squeeze through.

I pushed Bishop through first.

He scrambled to the other side, turning back to watch me with his dark eyes.

I forced my body through the narrow gap.

The cold metal scraped against my ribs, tearing my shirt.

My coat caught on a sharp edge.

I pulled hard, tearing the fabric, and stumbled into the dark woods of the park.

The park was a dense stretch of old oak trees and winding dirt paths.

At night, it was pitch black.

It was lit only by the distant, hazy glow of city streetlights.