I photographed every document. I had the motive. I had the smoking gun.

Then the wooden stairs groaned.

I froze, the blood icing in my veins.

Creak. Creak.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps, coming down. I killed the flashlight and scrambled backward into pitch black, wedging myself behind the bulky furnace in the corner.

I pulled my knees to my chest and made myself small.