We all froze, listening to the tires crunching on the wet stone.

The headlights cut through the dark hallway, casting long, distorted shadows of the grandfather clock against the wall.

The car stopped directly outside the front porch.

The engine did not turn off; it rumbled low and heavy in the damp air.

I walked to the door and looked through the narrow glass pane.

An unmarked black SUV sat in the driveway, its windshield wipers sweeping back and forth.

The driver’s side door opened, and a man in a dark trench coat stepped out into the rain.

He didn’t walk toward the porch; instead, he stood by the hood of the car, looking directly up at the window where I stood.

My phone in my hand began to vibrate again.

I looked at the screen.

Warren Bellamy’s name flashed in the green light of the display.

I slid my thumb across the glass and put the phone to my ear.

“Warren?” I said.

His voice was faint, muffled by what sounded like the heavy patter of rain on a car roof.