A car door slammed shut in the driveway.

Then another.

Vance walked back into the kitchen, his face pale as paper.

In his hand, he held his shotgun, but it wasn’t pointed at the door.

It was pointed at me.

“I’m sorry, Clara,” he whispered. “I have to protect my own.”

The front door lock clicked from the outside.

The door clicked open.

The wet wind from the harbor rushed into the hallway, carrying the smell of salt and engine grease.

Three men stepped into the warmth of the house, their wet boots squeaking on the hardwood.

The first was tall, wearing a heavy wool overcoat soaked with rain.

The second had his hand inside his jacket, his eyes scanning the narrow hallway.

The third was Leo Romano.

He did not look like a man who had just driven through a storm.

His dark hair was combed back, and his grey wool suit was perfectly dry.

He looked at Vance first, then turned his flat, grey eyes toward me and the babies.

“You did the right thing, Detective,” Leo said.

His voice was low and smooth, like oiled leather.