A single lamp glowed behind the lace curtains of the front window.

I parked on the gravel shoulder and turned off the engine.

The rain was coming down harder now, drumming a steady beat on the roof.

I gripped the steering wheel, trying to steady my breathing.

I got out of the car and walked up the wooden steps, the boards groaning under my weight.

I knocked on the screen door.

Inside, the television hummed, but there was no other sound.

I knocked again, harder this time.

“Evelyn?” I called out.

The curtain in the window flicked aside.

A pale, lined face peered out at me through the glass.

Her eyes were sharp behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

The curtain fell back, and I heard the sound of multiple deadbolts sliding open.

The wooden door swung inward.

The woman standing there was small, wearing a thick wool cardigan and holding a mug of tea.

“Yes?” she asked, her voice raspy but clear.

“Are you Evelyn Vaughan?” I asked.

“I am,” she said, looking me up and down. “Who are you?”