The study door stood at the end of the shadowed east wing.

I pulled the antique brass key from my pocket, my fingers trembling as I slid it into the lock.

It turned with a stiff, metallic click that echoed through the quiet house.

The door swung inward, releasing the faint, preserved scent of Elena’s favorite lavender hand lotion and old paper.

Everything was exactly as she had left it fourteen months ago.

Her drafting pencils were lined neatly beside her blueprints. Her reading glasses rested on top of an open architectural journal.

Detective Miller stepped inside behind me, pulling latex gloves from his pocket and snapping them over his fingers.

“Where did she keep personal correspondence?” Miller asked, his eyes scanning the floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves.

“She had a combination safe hidden behind the portrait of Lily on the back wall,” I answered, pointing toward the frame.

Before we could take another step, the gravel outside the study’s French windows crunched violently.

Headlights swept across the frosted glass panes, throwing long, distorted shadows against the walls.

Miller’s hand went instantly to his service weapon beneath his coat.

“Stay behind me, Mr. Campbell,” he commanded in a tense whisper.

The exterior door handle of the French terrace jiggled once, twice, then rattled against the deadbolt.

A heavy silhouette stood framed against the drizzle outside, wearing a dark rain slicker.

The visitor wasn't trying to pick the lock.

The glass shattered with a deafening crash as an iron crowbar punched through the pane beside the latch.

A gloved hand reached inside, unlocked the bolt, and pushed the door wide open.

A man stepped into the room, shaking rain from his hood.

Under the harsh glow of the desk lamp, his face was exposed.

It was Marcus Vance.

His eyes swept past Detective Miller and locked directly onto me with a cold, desperate sneer.

“Hello, Adrian,” Marcus said, raising a heavy black semi-automatic pistol.

“Step away from Elena’s desk.”