George arrived at the house with a feeling he could not shake. It settled deep in his chest, heavy and insistent, the kind of unease that told a man something was already wrong before proof ever appeared. The gate stood open. Too open. The quiet felt unnatural.

The gardener was still outside, pacing slowly, wiping his hands repeatedly on his trousers as if he could scrub away the worry clinging to him. George didn’t waste time on greetings. He stepped out of the car and moved straight toward ...