At midnight, a soft knock sounded at the door downstairs.

I froze, my hand clutching the blanket.

The brass bell didn’t ring, but the knock came again, heavier this time.

I crept down the stairs, keeping close to the wall to avoid the squeaky steps.

I looked through the peephole of the street-level door.

A figure stood in the pouring rain, coat collar turned up against the wind.

It was not Dominic.

The streetlight illuminated her face as she looked up directly at the glass.

It was Dr. Miriam Hale.

Her face was pale, and she was clutching a thick, water-stained manila envelope to her chest.

She looked terrified.

I reached for the lock, my fingers trembling on the cold brass.

Before I could turn it, her phone in her hand lit up, casting a blue glow on her wet cheek.

She looked down at the screen, and her eyes widened in pure panic.

She looked back at me through the glass and shook her head, taking a step backward into the street.

I stood frozen on the threshold as the taillights of a car vanished around the corner of the wet street.