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"No signs of a struggle."

"No forced entry."

"So they left willingly?" I ask.

"No."

"How can you tell?"

He gestures around the room.

"If people leave willingly, they take things."

He points toward a purse hanging beside the garage door.

"Rebecca's purse."

A set of car keys rests on the entry table.

"Keys."

Wallet. Prescription glasses. Phone charger. A half-finished crossword puzzle folded beside the recliner.

"They expected to come back."

The words settle heavily between us. Again. Not abandoned. Interrupted.

Rhett reaches the family room. A television sits opposite the couch. Below it, a digital video recorder connected to four exterior security cameras. He kneels.

"This is what I wanted."

"You think the footage survived?"

"I think we should find out."

He powers on the monitor. Static. Then menus. The hard drive is intact. He scrolls backward.

October 19. Normal. Cars. Neighbors. Mail delivery.

October 20. The screen freezes. Pixelates. Then goes black. A timestamp continues counting. The picture never returns.

"Can you recover it?" I ask.

"I don't know."

He plugs a small forensic drive into the DVR.

"You carry that around?"

"I investigate things."

"Prepared for everything."

"Almost."

The download begins. Five percent. Twelve. Twenty-three. Without warning…

The monitor flickers. Every camera feed appears simultaneously. Front porch. Driveway.