A rusted, dented yellow taxi idled on the street. The rear door opened with a screech of unlubricated hinges, and a man stepped out into the freezing wind.

No tailored suit, no Italian wool. A faded, grease-stained navy canvas jacket over a gray mechanic’s uniform. His shoulders were hunched against the cold, and he looked fifteen years older than he had three months before.

It was Ethan.

He didn’t approach with the swagger of an owner. He came slowly, hesitantly, like a trespasser expecting to be shot at. In his bare, freezing hands he held a flimsy brown paper grocery bag.

He stopped at the iron bars and looked through them at the house, and he saw me in the window. He didn’t wave. He just stood there shivering, holding the bag.

My heart hammered — residual anger and undeniable, agonizing paternal instinct tangled together. I walked out of the study into the hallway, where Linda was already standing by the door, her hand resting on the brass knob.