He opened the door, letting in a draft of damp, cold air that smelled of wet cedar and rain.

Robert followed him out, his leather soles whispering against the stone porch.

Bianca lingered for a second, her eyes darting between Graham and the open door.

She looked small in the grand archway of our foyer.

She didn’t look at me at all.

She pulled her wool coat tighter around her shoulders and stepped out into the dark.

The door clicked shut behind them, the heavy brass lock sliding into place with a definitive thud.

The silence in the foyer was heavy, thick with the scent of Bianca’s expensive perfume and the damp earth from outside.

Graham stood perfectly still.

His breathing was loud, shallow, and uneven.

He slowly walked over to the silver tray on the entry table.

He picked up the formal demand for the books, his fingers leaving smudges on the crisp white paper.

He crumpled it in his fist.

“You did this,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet.

I walked past him into the living room, where the fire was dying down to gray ash.