Instead, a white Ford Explorer with the county sheriff’s emblem sat idling near the oak tree.

A deputy in a dark brown uniform stood on the porch, his hands resting on his utility belt.

I recognized him from high school—Tommy Vance, who had lived three blocks down from us.

Now he was a man with a badge, waiting in the damp autumn air.

Ten minutes passed.

Then, the low growl of a high-performance engine came through the phone’s speaker.

Julian’s black Mercedes SUV turned into the driveway, its tires crunching loudly on the wet gravel.

He did not park in the street.

He drove straight up onto the grass, his front bumper stopping feet from the porch steps.

The driver’s side door swung open before the engine had fully died.

Julian stepped out.

His hair was disheveled, the wind whipping his dark bangs across his forehead.

He had discarded his suit jacket, and his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar.

He walked with quick, aggressive strides toward the steps.

“Elena!” he shouted.

His voice was thin and raspy through the small speaker of my phone.