I grabbed her arm—it felt like ice—and shoved her toward the pantry just as the lock clicked.

She slipped inside, the slatted door clicking shut a second before the kitchen door swung open.

Richard stood on the threshold.

His dark hair was damp from the rain, clinging to his forehead in neat, graying strands.

He wore his expensive wool coat, the collar turned up against the wind.

He looked exactly like the man I had loved for two decades: calm, handsome, and completely in control.

“Evelyn,” he said, stepping inside and wiping his boots on the mat.

He didn’t look at me right away; he looked at the kitchen table.

There were two half-empty mugs of coffee sitting there.

He paused, his hand hovering over his keys as he placed them on the counter.

“You have company?” he asked.

“Just a neighbor,” I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to keep it steady. “She left a few minutes ago.”

Richard eyed the mugs.

He walked over to the table and touched the side of the second mug with his index finger.