For a moment, I do not move.
The corridor ahead is long and quiet, with polished floorboards, soft rugs and warm cream walls. The smell of fresh coffee drifts from somewhere farther inside the house.
It is a home, and it unsettles me.
It is not the size, or the elegance, or the fact that every inch of what I can see quietly confirms what I already knew about the Landry family.
It is the warmth.
The evidence of people.
Coats on hooks in the front porch. Shoes lined up beneath a long bench.
A scarf draped over the banister of the staircase.
A family photograph taken somewhere that looks like the Lake District, proudly sitting on a narrow table beside a bowl of keys.
I take one cautious step forwards, then another, trying not to think about how dirty my feet must be as I slowly make
