The handle moved again.
This time it went all the way down.
The door opened.
It opened slowly, the way it was pushed by someone who understood that a door opened slowly was a door that did not announce itself, and I stood to the side of it with the lamp in both hands and I breathed through my nose and I waited and I did not move.
A figure came through.
Dark clothing, fitted, the same deliberate choice of nothing loose, nothing that would catch or make sound. Gloved hands. Something about the way they moved through the doorway was practiced and specific, the movement of a person who entered rooms that were not theirs as a matter of professional habit.
They turned into the room.
They were looking at the bed, at the wardrobe, sweeping the room with the rapid, systematic attention of so
