So I listened.
I shut off the main breaker.
The Cleveland house I had inherited from my father immediately went dark.
My husband, Julian, had texted thirty minutes earlier saying a business meeting would keep him away until morning.
At least, that was what he wanted me to believe.
Years earlier, while helping my father renovate the house, I had created a small concealed storage room behind a heavy oak cabinet in the bedroom.
It held old documents, family papers, and several things that had belonged to my father.
Julian had never known it existed.
I slipped inside and quietly closed the panel.
Then I waited.
A few minutes later, I heard the front door open.
Someone had a key.
Footsteps moved through the dark house.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Then they came upstairs.
I held my breath.
Through a narrow opening, I saw someone enter the bedroom.
Julian.
He wasn’t supposed to be there.
