Arthur put the car in gear and drove through the open gate.

“Then we had better get inside quickly,” he said.

We drove up the winding, tree-lined driveway, the Buick’s tires splashing through deep puddles.

The massive brick mansion loomed ahead of us, its dark windows reflecting the stormy sky.

The movers had stopped working, standing under the overhang of the garage to watch us.

Arthur parked the car right behind the moving truck, blocking it in.

“They can’t leave with your things now,” Arthur said.

“My mother’s chest,” I said, looking at the cedar box in the truck bed.

“We will get it back inside,” Arthur said.

We got out of the car and walked up the stone steps to the front door.

The door was unlocked, left slightly ajar in Victoria and Charles’s haste.

I pushed it open and stepped into the grand foyer.

The scent of old wood, floor wax, and Garrett’s pipe tobacco washed over me.

It was the smell of my life for the last ten years.

But the silence of the house was gone, replaced by the sound of frantic footsteps upstairs.