I don't touch it.
That's the first thing. Every instinct I have, medical and personal and the new instinct I've been developing over the last three weeks that is specifically tuned to this situation, says don't touch it yet.
I stand in my doorway with my keys still in my hand and I scan the apartment the way I've started scanning rooms since the night Dominic showed me that clinic access log. Left to right. Entry points. Anything out of place.
The window above the sink is closed. The bedroom door is exactly where I left it, halfway open. The bathroom light I always leave on is on. Everything is exactly where it should be except for that white rectangle on my kitchen counter that should not exist.
I call Dominic before I fully decide to.
He picks up on the first ring. "Ella."
"Someone
