It was an automated alert from the security system at my house in Highland Park.

A vehicle had just pulled into the driveway.

I double-clicked the notification to open the live camera feed.

On the screen, I saw Graham’s black SUV parked crookedly near the front entrance.

The driver’s side door flung open, and Graham stepped out, his tie loosened, his suit jacket missing.

He looked frantic, his eyes scanning the quiet street before he turned and rushed toward the front door.

My phone on the desk began to vibrate, the screen lighting up with Graham’s name.

I let the phone ring three times before I slid my finger across the screen.

“Jocelyn,” Graham said, his voice thin and breathless.

“Yes, Graham?” I said.

“Are you at the house?” he asked.

“I am in my study upstairs,” I said.

I heard the heavy front door click open downstairs.

His leather-soled shoes pounded against the hardwood of the foyer.

“I’m coming up,” he said, and hung up the phone.

I set the device back on the polished mahogany of my desk.