Instead, I drove home.
The house looked smaller when I approached it as a dead woman.
My key still worked.
I entered through the laundry room.
The smell hit me first.
My home.
Cedar cleaner.
Coffee.
Preston’s cologne.
For eleven years, those smells had meant safety.
Now they smelled like crime.
Nothing had changed.
That was the worst part.
My shoes still sat by the stairs.
My mug remained beside the sink.
A grocery list in my handwriting was attached to the refrigerator.
Eggs.
Apples.
Cinnamon.
Milk.
I stared at the last word.
Then tore the paper down.
I went upstairs.
My closet had been disturbed.
Several handbags were gone.
Two jewelry boxes were empty.
My sister had not waited long.
Preston’s office was locked.
I had expected that.
I used the emergency key hidden above the basement door.
Inside, his desk looked clean.
Too clean.
I searched drawers.
Files.
Cabinets.
Nothing.
Then I remembered something.
Preston loved symmetry.
Every object on his desk lined up perfectly.
Except the lowest shelf of the bookcase.
One book leaned slightly forward.
I pulled it.
Nothing happened.
