The rain continued to beat against the roof.

I put the sweater down slowly.

I reached into my pocket and touched the cold metal of the small revolver I kept there.

A car door slammed.

Only one.

I walked to the window and parted the cheap plastic blinds by an inch.

A dark town car sat in the driveway, its nose pointed toward the cabin.

A man walked through the rain toward the porch.

He wasn’t wearing a hood or carrying a weapon in his hands.

He wore a tailored wool overcoat, completely unsuited for the coastal weather.

He stepped onto the wooden porch, his leather shoes tapping against the wet pine.

He didn’t knock.

He just stood there, looking at the door.

I moved back into the shadow of the hallway.

The doorknob began to turn.

The lock clicked.

The heavy oak door swung inward, bringing a rush of cold, damp wind and the sharp smell of salt.

Arthur stepped into the small entryway.

He closed the door behind him, slowly, until the latch clicked back into place.

He didn’t look at me right away.