He did not try to block me this time.

His eyes were fixed on the blue folder containing the evidence of his own crimes.

I reached the door and placed my hand on the cold brass handle.

“If you call him before I leave this house, the files go to the prosecutor tonight,” I said.

I turned the handle, the latch clicking open.

As the door swung inward, the bright light from the hallway spilled into the dark study.

Standing in the hallway, her hand raised as if about to knock, was Margaret Carter.

She looked at me, then past my shoulder at her husband, her face pale and drawn.

“Richard,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “The police are downstairs.”

Margaret stood frozen in the doorway, her manicured fingers clutching the edge of her cashmere shawl.

The rain beat against the windowpane behind Richard’s desk, a steady, rhythmic drumming.

“Who are they here for, Margaret?” I asked.

My voice sounded incredibly calm, even to my own ears.

She did not look at me.

Her eyes were locked on her husband, who was still staring at the blue folder on his mahogany desk.