He wore a tailored wool coat that looked entirely too expensive for the mud he was stepping into.

It was not Gregory, and it was certainly not Arthur.

The man walked up the stairs, his leather shoes clicking against the wet wood of the porch.

He did not knock.

Instead, he stood before the heavy wooden door, his shadow stretching long and dark across the frosted glass pane.

The phone in my pocket vibrated once.

It was a text from another unknown number.

*I am outside, Clara. Let’s talk about your future.*

I let the curtain fall back into place.

I walked to the door, unlocked the heavy deadbolt, and pulled it open.

Julian Maroni stood on my porch, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with a polite, razor-sharp smile.

“It is a long drive from the city,” Julian said, his voice smooth and quiet over the sound of the rain.

“You should have called first,” I said.

“I did,” he replied, tilting his phone toward me. “But I wanted to make sure you were home before the roads washed out.”