Lottie hadn't expected it to be this easy.
One moment she was pressing her palm to the keypad outside Dr. Maxwell's gate, heart thrumming in her chest like a caged bird, and the next—click—the gate had opened, welcoming her like an old friend. She had expected alarms. A barking dog. At least a neighbor's suspicious glance. But nothing. Only the sound of her own breath and the sharp crunch of gravel under her boots as she stepped up to the door and, with a trembling hand, tried the knob.
Now, standing in the grand foyer of Dr. Maxwell's house—clean, modern, and smelling faintly of lemons and secrets—Lottie was at a loss. She hadn't planned for this far. She hadn't expected to get in.
There had been no next step, only a vague hope that something—a letter, a document, a photograph—would leap out at her and explain everything.
