She arrived on a Wednesday.
I saw the car from the kitchen window.
It came down the driveway at half past two in the afternoon, moving with the unhurried confidence of someone who knew exactly where they were going and had decided some time ago how they felt about arriving there. It was a good car, newer than anything in the Crimson Ridge fleet, silver, with Southern Oregon plates that caught the pale October light as it turned onto the gravel. I knew those plates before I registered anything else. I had memorised that combination of letters and numbers from the last time Celeste had visited, three years ago, standing at this same window watching her leave.
I put down the vegetable knife.
I pressed both hands flat on the counter.
The car stopped. The engine went quiet.
For a moment n
