My hands moved along the side of the desk, tracing the grain where the wood met the wainscoting, searching the seams of the paneling for any irregularity in the joints.

In the corner behind the heavy brass wastebasket, in the shadow of the desk leg, my finger caught on a slight protrusion, a tiny wooden lip no larger than a matchhead.

I pressed it.

Nothing.

I pushed it upward, and a faint dry scrape sounded from behind the central drawer, and a small panel, four inches square, popped forward by a fraction of an inch, revealing a dark gap in the mahogany.

I held my breath and listened for footsteps or for the sound of Jonathan’s car in the gravel, and the house stayed silent.