The moment I stepped through the front door, the air felt wrong. It was too quiet.
My heart pounded as I looked around the empty living room. The lamps were still on, glowing dimly against the cream walls. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat on the table beside the couch. The faint smell of cigar smoke lingered in the air.
I took a slow breath, clutching the gun hidden at the back of my jeans. My fingers brushed against the cold metal, and my stomach twisted.
Each step I took up the stairs echoed louder than I expected. The house that once felt alive—the laughter, the noise, the teasing—now felt like a stranger’s place. Every picture on the wall seemed to watch me as I climbed, my chest tightening with each breath.
At the top of the stairs, I stopped in front of the heavy wooden door tha
