Before I could speak, the brass bell above the diner door clanged loudly.

A gust of wet, cold wind swept into the warm room.

I turned my head toward the entrance.

A man stepped inside, shaking the rain from his dark fedora.

He wore a heavy gray overcoat that was dark with water at the shoulders.

He was a thick-necked man with a graying mustache and eyes that scanned the diner before landing directly on us.

My hand instinctively reached for my purse, expecting Richard to step in behind him.

But the door swung shut, and the man walked toward our booth alone.

His heavy boots squeaked on the wet linoleum floor.

He stopped at the edge of our table, wiping a bead of rain from his cheek with a thick thumb.

“Mrs. Vance,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

I looked up, my throat suddenly dry. “Do I know you?”

“My name is Miller,” he said.

He pulled a laminated card from his pocket and held it out just long enough for me to see the words *Private Investigator*.