I pressed the screen to answer it and held the phone to my ear.

I didn’t say anything.

The sound of heavy breathing came through the line.

Then, a woman’s voice spoke.

It wasn’t Preston.

It was Samantha Mercer.

“You should have stayed in the kitchen, Claire,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy.

“Where are you, Samantha?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.

“Look out the window,” she said.

I looked toward the black sedan across the street.

The passenger window rolled down slowly.

In the dim light of the streetlamp, I saw the silhouette of a woman holding a phone to her ear.

She smiled, her teeth flashing in the dark.

Beside her, the driver’s side door opened.

A man stepped out into the rain.

It wasn’t Preston.

It was Daniel Price.

He stood in the rain, looking directly up at the porch where I stood.

He was wearing the same dark overcoat from the photograph.

He took a step toward the driveway.

“Claire,” Samantha’s voice purred in my ear. “We have the originals. You have nothing.”