Brent’s face drained of what little color it had left.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

“We have the bank logs, Brent,” I said, stepping closer to the door.

“We know exactly what you tried to do.”

Jennifer tapped the top page of the stack, her eyes fixed on his.

“This is a formal demand,” she said.

At that exact moment, a sharp, bright light illuminated the driveway behind Brent’s SUV.

A second car had pulled up, its headlights cutting through the falling snow and washing over the front porch.

The engine shut off, and a figure in a dark coat stepped out of the vehicle, holding a white envelope.

Brent turned his head, squinting into the glare of the headlights as the stranger began walking up the steps.

The man’s boots crunched loudly on the frozen slush of the porch steps.

He wore a heavy canvas jacket with the collar turned up against the wind.

Cold air rolled into the foyer, smelling of pine and wet asphalt.

“Brent Sterling?” the man asked, his breath blooming in a white cloud.