The rain was falling harder now, turning the gutters into rushing streams of dark water.

Miller pulled a silver lighter from his pocket and struck a flame.

He did not have a cigarette in his mouth.

He held the flame up for three seconds, then closed the lighter.

He waited five seconds, then did it again.

My breath fogged the cold glass of the window.

A block away, tucked under the shadow of a large elm tree, a white delivery van flickered its high beams twice.

My heart stopped.

“Vincent,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper.

“What is it?” he asked without looking up from his phone.

“Look at Miller,” I said.

Vincent stood up slowly and walked over to the window, standing close behind me.

The street was dark again, the white van sitting motionless under the dripping branches.

“He is lighting a cigarette,” Vincent said.

“He has no cigarette,” I said, my heart pounding in my ears. “He did it twice. And the van at the corner answered him.”

Vincent stared out into the darkness, his face turning to stone.