The key didn't fit. I stood on the porch of 1847 Blackwood Lane, jiggling the brass key the lawyer had given me, watching it refuse to turn in the lock. My aunt's house. My inheritance. My fresh start. Except the lock had been changed. I stepped back, studying the Victorian's peeling paint and boarded windows. Aunt Margot had been dead three months before they found me—her only living relative, a niece she'd never met. The porch boards creaked under my feet. Fresh creaks. Someone had been here recently. I walked to the window, peering through a gap in the boards. The furniture inside was covered in white sheets, but there was something wrong about them. They were too clean. Too white. No dust. I circled the house, my pulse quickening with each step. The back door hung slightly ajar. I should have called the police. I should have gotten back in my car and driven to the lawyer's office. Instead, I pushed the door open. The kitchen smelled like coffee. Fresh coffee. A mug sat on the counter, still warm to the touch. Beside it, a newspaper dated yesterday. And next to that, a photograph. Of me. Not just any photograph. Me, yesterday, at the lawyer's office, signing the inheritance papers. Someone had taken this through the window. My hands shook as I picked it up. Written on the back in neat handwriting: "Finally." The floorboards creaked upstairs. I wasn't alone.