We crossed the muddy grass to the detached tool shed. I reached under the rusted lip of an old planter box and pulled out a heavy brass key wrapped in oiled cloth.

I walked us to the side entrance by the mudroom — a heavy wooden door with a deadbolt from 1985 that wasn’t wired into any circuit board.

The key turned with a satisfying metallic clack. I pushed the door open into the dark hallway, faint laughter drifting from our living room.

The heat of the house hit us first, then the smell — not a home-cooked meal, but the sharp, oaky aroma of expensive wine.

I led Linda quietly down the hall, our wet shoes silent on the runner. At the edge of the living room I stopped dead and threw my arm out to hold her back.

The room was a disaster zone. Half a dozen large cardboard boxes sprawled across the Persian rug, and it was the writing on them that made my jaw clench: thick black marker spelling out CHARITY, STORAGE, and TRASH.