Within fifteen minutes, two patrol cars and a canine unit pulled into our driveway. Greg was out of town at a logistics conference in Lansing, so I was completely alone with Toby on the front lawn.

An officer named Miller, a stocky man with graying hair and a kind face, walked me through the house. He checked every window lock, every exterior door, and the tiny crawl space hatch in our utility closet.

“Everything is secure, Mrs. Mitchell,” Officer Miller said, shining his flashlight around our small hallway. “There’s no way anyone is getting inside this house without setting off an alarm or breaking glass.”

But then, the police dog, a German Shepherd named Buster, started whining near the back door.

When the handler let him out into the yard, Buster didn’t hesitate. He ran straight to the yellow tool shed in the corner of the property, scratching furiously at the wood beneath the padlocked door and letting out a sharp, urgent bark.

“Mrs. Mitchell, do you have the key to this shed?” Officer Miller asked.

“No,” I said, my voice trembling. “My husband keeps it on his main key ring. He’s in Lansing until Friday.”

Officer Miller didn’t wait. He walked back to his cruiser, grabbed a pair of heavy bolt cutters, and snapped the brass padlock with a loud metallic crack.

I stood near the maple tree, holding Toby close to my side, burying his face in my sweater so he wouldn’t see.

Inside the shed, it smelled like motor oil and damp earth. The officers began moving the heavy lawnmower and a stack of blue plastic tarps. Beneath the tarps, flush against the wooden floorboards, was a square wooden hatch with a recessed metal ring.

It wasn’t a tool storage space.

Officer Miller pulled the hatch open. A gust of cold, musty air blew out of the dark hole. He shone his heavy tactical light down into the darkness.

“Ma’am,” he called out, his voice tense. “You need to stay back.”

He climbed down the wooden ladder. Another officer followed him. For five minutes, the yard was completely silent except for the low rumble of the police cruisers idling in our driveway.

When Officer Miller climbed back out, his uniform was smudged with gray concrete dust. His face was pale. In his hand, he was holding a green plastic grocery bag and a small, worn leather wallet.

“There is a sublevel crawl space under your house, Mrs. Mitchell,” he said, looking at me with a mixture of pity and confusion. “It runs the entire length of the foundation. Someone has been living down there for a long time. Months, at least.”