Nobody bought abandoned fishing shacks in the winter.

I stood up and walked back to the kitchen window.

The rain was turning into sleet, rattling against the glass like small stones.

Through the gray mist, I looked toward the narrow dirt road that led down to the shore.

A pair of headlights appeared at the top of the hill.

The car moved slowly down the gravel road, its tires crunching on the wet stones.

I pulled the curtain back an inch.

It was a black Ford sedan, dented on the passenger side door.

It did not belong to the local sheriff, and it did not belong to the mail carrier.

I let the curtain fall back into place and walked to the small wooden chest near the fireplace.

Inside was a registered Walther PPK, oiled and loaded, which I had purchased under a different name three years ago.

I slipped it into the pocket of my heavy wool cardigan.

The weight of the metal felt cold and reassuring against my thigh.

I knew why they were here, or rather, why they had finally resorted to driving down every coastal road in the county.