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Quinn shook his head slightly, murmured, “The weirdest thing. You smell like home.”

Though most of the houses were dark and still at three in the morning, Christmas lights still twinkled cheerily from a few rooftops and eaves. A giant, grinning inflatable snowman bobbed gently on the night breeze as though trying to see what Andy and Quinn were up to as they walked silently, swiftly around the sleeping Whittaker residence to the back entrance.

Quinn tried the door. It was locked. No surprise there. They had already verified the dead flower arrangement and newspapers were right where they’d seen them earlier.

“Keep your hood pulled down,” Quinn warned softly, as he unzipped his parka. “There are cameras back here too.” He removed a flat leather case from inside his parka and leaned over the knob. The thin plastic of his gloves whispered as he worked.

Andy tamped down the instinctive rush of nervous fear he felt with every smallcreakof the door, every brush of the wind against the chimes. It was so quiet, he felt like he could just about hear the people next door snoring in their beds.

“What if there’s an alarm?” he whispered.

“There probablyisan alarm.” Quinn glanced back at Andy. “I’ll deal with it.”

Andy nodded. His mouth was dry, his heart hopping from rib to rib on its way to his throat. All they needed was one alert dog, one nosy neighbor…

“Put your booties on.”

It took Andy a moment to remember the plastic shoe covers he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier. Hands shaking, he slipped on the thin plastic sleeves.

He couldn’t see over Quinn’s shoulder, but it was only seconds before the door swung open on well-oiled hinges. Quinn straightened, slipped the length of glinting wire back into the leather case. He stepped inside the kitchen, directing his flashlight beam around the doorframe, and then motioned for Andy to enter.

“The alarm isn’t armed.”

Andy felt a wave of relief. “Mr. Whittaker must have left in a hurry.” And who could blame him?

It was warm inside the house, so the heating was on, and it smelled of three-day-old cooking and a trash bin thatneeded emptying. Moonlight through the windows illuminated a large, comfortable country-style kitchen with butcher-block countertops and a copper backsplash behind the range. Everything looked clean and tidy and supremely ordinary—barring the untouched meal laid out on the kitchen table.

One chair was pushed back and angled as though Mr. Whittaker had just sat down to eat when the phone rang.

Or had it been the doorbell?

Andy played his flashlight over the plate of chicken, rice, and veggies. A full glass of wine sat next to an open wine bottle. The silverware still rested on the folded napkin. He shone his flashlight at the stove, illuminating the roasting pan with glistening chicken, pot with caked wire masher, glass bowl with soggy vegetables.

His unease grew. “Is his car here?”

When there was no response, he glanced around and saw that he was alone in the kitchen.

“Quinn?” Andy whispered sharply. He strode to the doorway leading into the next room.

“Here.” Quinn’s voice was muffled.

It took Andy a moment to spot Quinn’s tall shadow amid the other shadows. He appeared to be sorting swiftly through a stack of opened mail lying on the coffee table.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Andy asked.

“Anything tying the Whittakers to your uncle. Anything tying the Whittakers to Sirius or Angstrom Glencore. Anything leading us to Paul Robie. Anything to do with snow globes. Anything—”

“Got it,” Andy whispered back. “I’ll take upstairs.”

“Don’t forget to check the baseboards.”

“Huh?”

“Baseboards, paneling, wall art can all be used to conceal hiding places.” Quinn demonstrated, moving from the tableand lightly kicking the baseboard under the window. “You’re listening for a hollow sound.”

“Uh, right.”

Andy went into the wide main hall and spotted a pile of unopened mail lying in front of the door. “There’s more mail out here.”