The house was quiet again by the time the clock on the wall crept past five. I sat on the edge of the bed with the lamp on low, a glass of whiskey in my hand that I hadn’t really meant to pour.
I froze mid-sip, sensing him before I looked as headlights cut across the courtyard outside the window.
The beam slid across the walls, across the floor, across my bare feet. Then it disappeared.
An engine died.
My fingers tightened around the glass.
Car doors slammed outside. One. Then another.
Low voices followed. Quick. Urgent. I couldn’t catch the words.
The front door opened somewhere downstairs. A dull thud as it shuts again.
Silence.
The glass in my hand was empty before I realized I had finished it. I set it down on the table beside me a little harder than I meant to.
The knock on
