It sounded thin.

Desperate.

I did not answer.

I watched the brass doorknob jiggle.

It was locked.

“She is not going to let you in, Julian,” a second voice said.

It was Martin Bell, his corporate attorney.

“We wait for Lydia,” Martin said.

The porch light flickered.

Through the small glass pane at the top of the door, I saw the silhouette of Julian’s head.

His shoulders were hunched against the cold.

He looked smaller than I remembered.

The man who had controlled my life for years was shivering on a wet porch in Maine.

Five minutes passed in silence, marked only by the ticking of the kitchen clock.

Then, another set of headlights illuminated the driveway.

I saw Lydia’s sleek black sedan pull up behind Julian’s rental SUV.

Lydia stepped out, holding a large black umbrella.

A taller woman in a yellow raincoat followed her.

Lydia walked up the porch steps, her heels clicking on the wet wood.

“Step back, Julian,” Lydia said.

I unlocked the deadbolt.

The heavy brass latch clicked open.

I pulled the door back.