At my balcony, the heavy glass door stood slightly ajar. The lock hadn’t been picked; it had been bypassed electronically. Only one person had installed that security system: Martin Cole, my mother’s “handyman” neighbor.

I drew the compact SIG Sauer from my thigh holster, held it close to my chest, and slipped inside.

The apartment smelled of damp earth and ozone from the open door, and beneath it the sharp tang of nervous sweat. The living room strobed with blue lightning.

My father’s antique cedar footlocker, usually at the foot of my bed, had been dragged into the center of the rug. The brass lock was smashed. Yellowed tissue paper and my father’s old Navy dress blues were scattered across the floor like rags.

A shadow shifted near the hallway.

“Don’t move,” I said, my voice cutting through the dark, my weapon leveled at center mass.