She didn’t look up from her papers, but her shoulders were hunched high and tight under her red sweatshirt.

“Are they gone?” she asked.

“For the time being,” I said.

I rinsed off my hands at the sink and dried them with a dish towel.

At four o’clock, heavy boots landed on the boards of my front porch.

Harry Caldwell slammed his right hand against the white doorframe, his heavy gold signet ring hitting the wood with a loud crack that shook the screen door.

Two steps behind him on the stairs stood Arthur Peterson, clutching a manila folder to his ribs.