Tristan quietly let himself into the house. Since it was Christmas Eve, chances were that Brian, Heather, and Zeke were likely still awake, even though it was past eleven p.m. He had hoped to be home more than two hours ago, but since holidays and violence often went together, he’d spent most of the evening at the scene of a shooting. As he walked through the dark kitchen, he noticed it smelled faintly of lemons. In all probability, Brian and Heather had been doing prep for tomorrow’s dinner. He toed off his shoes and left them under the edge of the table, out of the way. Light was visible down the hallway, coming from the den. It was a flickering golden glow and Tristan suspected it might be from the fireplace. When he reached the archway that led to the den, he paused for a moment. The