A heavy fist struck the wooden front door, three times, hard enough to shake the frame.

“Clara!” a voice called out over the wind.

It wasn’t Gregory’s voice.

It was smoother, younger, and far more dangerous.

It was Julian Maroni.

vibrating through the floorboards under my boots.

I looked at his extended hand again, then back into his arrogant, confident eyes.

Before I could speak, a sudden, bright light washed over the kitchen window.

It wasn’t lightning.

It was the steady, white glare of high beams.

Another car had just turned into the gravel driveway.

Arthur froze, his hand still suspended in the air.

His head snapped toward the window, his jaw tightening instantly.

“Did you tell anyone you were coming here?” I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper.

“No,” Arthur said, his hand reaching inside his overcoat toward his shoulder holster.

The sound of car doors opening outside cut through the noise of the storm.

Multiple doors.

The gravel crunched under heavy boots.

The shadow of a man appeared against the frosted glass of the cabin’s side window.