I was inside my house in seconds, the door slamming behind me. I moved down the hallway with a speed that defied my age. The duplex was small—two bedrooms, one bath, nothing fancy—but it was mine. Or it would be, once I finished paying rent to Stuart Bass, my landlord. After the divorce, Kathy got the house we bought together. Her mother made sure of that, hiring Clifford Whitaker, the most aggressive divorce attorney in three counties. I got my daughter every other weekend and a mountain of debt from legal fees.

My bedroom was exactly as I’d left it that morning. The bed was made with military precision—a lingering habit from my brief stint in the Army before college. The dresser was clear, save for a framed picture of Emma and me at the Cincinnati Zoo. The nightstand held a lamp and the paperback I was reading.

I dropped to my knees, the hard laminate digging into my kneecaps, and peered under the bed frame.

Nothing visible. Just shadows and dust bunnies.

I grabbed the heavy Maglite from my nightstand and clicked it on. The beam sliced through the darkness under the bed.