Before I could answer, a sudden shadow moved across the kitchen window.

A heavy, deliberate knock sounded at the front door.

I held the phone tight against my ear, the plastic warm against my cheek.

“Kelsey,” I said, “stay on the line.”

I walked down the narrow hallway of the cabin.

The yellow pine floorboards felt cold beneath my bare feet.

The knock came again, louder this time, rattling the glass pane in the center of the heavy oak door.

I pulled the curtain back.

My father stood on the porch, his gray hair wet from the mountain drizzle.

He wore his heavy canvas work jacket, the collar turned up against the wind.

Behind him, the headlights of his old truck cut through the dark woods of Cedar Hollow.

I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

Cold air rushed into the kitchen, smelling of wet earth and pine needles.

“Dad,” I said.

He didn’t wait for me to invite him in.

He stepped past me, wiping his muddy boots on the small rug.

“You’re not answering your phone,” he said.