Diane Monroe was folding laundry when the knock came, sharp and unfamiliar against a door that rarely saw visitors this late in the evening. She wiped her hands on her apron and opened it, expecting a neighbor, maybe a delivery she'd forgotten about.
Instead, she found a tall, composed man standing in the hallway, dressed in a suit that cost more than her monthly rent, his expression polite in a way that didn't reach his eyes.
"Mrs. Monroe," he said. "My name is Desmond Voss. I believe you know who I am."
Diane's whole body went rigid at the name, eleven years of grief and anger rushing back at once, sharp and immediate. "I know exactly who you are. What do you want?"
"A few minutes of your time. Nothing more." He glanced past her into the small apartment, careful and assessing, though
