“Patricia, stop,” I said.

My voice was not loud, but it carried in the high-ceilinged hallway.

The man in the suit, Investigator Miller, turned his head toward her.

“Mrs. Taylor,” Miller said, his voice level. “I need you to stay right there.”

The heavy oak front door groaned open behind me.

A gust of wet, cold wind swept into the foyer, bringing the smell of damp pine and exhaust fumes.

Thomas Bell stepped inside.

He was taller than I remembered, his shoulders broad under a long, dark wool coat.

His grey hair was slicked back with rain, and his leather briefcase was clutched tightly in his right hand.

Two police officers in yellow slickers followed him, their heavy boots squeaking on the wet floorboards.

“Thomas,” I said.

He did not speak immediately.

He walked past the officers and stood beside me, placing a firm, dry hand on my shoulder.

“I am here, Claire,” Thomas said. “The games are over.”

He looked across the room at Patricia, who had frozen against the wall.

“Mr. Bell,” Patricia said, her voice dropping into a tight, defensive register. “This is a private family matter.”