The handle rattled again, more violently this time, followed by three sharp, rhythmic knocks.

I walked to the front door and looked through the brass peephole.

Standing on my porch, illuminated by the yellow porch light, was Eleanor Thorne.

She wore a tailored gray wool coat, her silver hair pulled back into a flawless, tight chignon.

She stood perfectly still, looking directly at the eye-level lens as if she knew I was watching.

Behind her, parked idling at the curb, was a black sedan with tinted windows.

I unlocked the deadbolt.

I opened the door three inches, keeping the heavy security chain engaged.

“It is cold out here, Madeline,” Eleanor said, her voice smooth and devoid of any urgency. “We should speak inside.”

“We have nothing to talk about, Eleanor,” I said.

“We have thirty-five million dollars to talk about,” she replied.

She held up a sleek leather portfolio.

“I believe you just received the digital copy,” she said. “I prefer to do business with paper.”

I looked at her face, searching for any sign of stress or desperation.