Arthur stepped back, away from the glass, his eyes darting around the small room for a second exit.

The yellow lamp on the table flickered once, then died, plunging the room into the gray, strobing light of the headlamps outside.

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.

The silence inside the kitchen became absolute, save for the frantic drumming of the rain against the glass.

Arthur’s eyes locked onto mine, wide with a sudden, ugly panic.

His hand remained hooked inside his jacket, his fingers wrapped around the butt of his pistol.

“Did you set me up?” he hissed, his voice a low, venomous rattle.

I did not answer him immediately.

I looked down at his other hand, which was no longer offering me a path back into his good graces.

The gesture was gone, replaced by the instinct to survive.

“I don’t leak my own location, Arthur,” I said, my voice quiet and steady.