He stood on the cheap welcome mat, water dripping from the hem of his dark wool overcoat onto the linoleum floor.

He reached up with gloved hands and brushed the rainwater from his slicked-back graying hair.

“You always did prefer the damp, Clara,” he said.

His voice was exactly as I remembered it—deep, dry, and carrying the absolute weight of authority.

I remained in the shadow of the hallway, my hand still resting on the grip of the revolver in my pocket.

“You’re a long way from the city, Arthur,” I said.

He turned his head toward the sound of my voice.

His dark eyes found me in the dimness.

There was no surprise in his expression, only that familiar, cold calculation.

“Six hours in a car with a bad heater,” he said, pulling off his leather gloves. “I had time to think.”

He walked past the small kitchen counter and stopped by the wooden dining table.

He looked at the single mismatched chair, then at the cheap yellow lamp casting a weak glow over the room.