It was a photograph of the street outside my diner in Maine, taken from a car parked across the road.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I stared at the image on my screen.

The gray shingles of the diner across the street were unmistakable, blurred slightly by the rain on the glass of the sender’s window.

I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the wooden floorboards.

Harrison blinked, startled by the sudden noise.

“Mama?” he asked, his small hand reaching for my sleeve.

“Stay right here, sweetie,” I whispered, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to keep it steady.

I pulled him away from the window, guiding him toward the back booth near the kitchen door.

The air in the diner smelled of old grease, damp coats, and blueberry pancakes.

Outside, the Maine sky was a heavy, bruised purple, and the rain had started to streak the windows.

I looked out at the street, scanning the line of parked cars along the curb.

A dark SUV with tinted windows sat idling near the corner, its exhaust pipe puffing white clouds into the cold air.