Inside my pocket, my fingers slowly released the grip of the revolver.

I pulled my hand out and let it hang at my side.

I knew what he wanted.

He wanted the old Clara.

The one who stayed up until three in the morning rewriting his ledgers so the tax attorneys wouldn’t find the discrepancies.

The one who cleaned up the blood after his brother’s messy mistakes.

The one who sat in the corner of the room, silent and invisible, while he took the credit for every deal I had negotiated.

He thought I was a dog that had run away because it was kicked.

He thought that by showing me a larger bowl of food, I would wag my tail and run back to the kennel.

I stepped out of the shadow of the hallway, letting the lamplight hit my face.

“You drove six hours for this,” I said.

“I did,” he said.

“You must be very tired,” I said.

“I’ve survived worse,” he said, his hand still extended. “Well, Clara? Do we have an agreement?”

The wind outside howled, shaking the loose wooden siding of the cabin.