His hand began to shake slightly.

The phone slipped from his grip and fell onto the kitchen island.

It landed face up on the granite countertop.

The red recording light on the camera continued to blink.

“Harris,” Julian said, his voice desperate. “What do we do?”

Harris didn’t answer him.

He turned toward the back door.

The lock was open.

The handle began to turn.

The metal handle clicked as it reached the bottom of its arc.

A gust of freezing rain hit the glass pane of the door, rattling the frame.

Harris took a step backward, his boots squeaking on the polished hardwood.

“Who is that?” Julian whispered, his grip tightening on the detective’s sleeve.

Harris did not answer him.

He reached down slowly, his hand hovering over the holster at his hip.

The back door creaked open an inch, letting in a draft of cold, wet air that smelled of rotting leaves.

The yellow curtains fluttered.

“Harris,” Julian hissed, his voice cracking. “Is that your partner?”

“My partner is at the station,” Harris said, his voice barely a breath.