The air in Cousins still held the damp, salty chill of spring, but the sun was fighting its way through the morning haze. The gravel of the driveway crunched under the tires of the grey Range Rover as it rolled to a stop outside the familiar, shingled beach house.

Conrad Fisher got out first, his movements slow and deliberate. He stretched, the hem of his worn navy t-shirt riding up, and ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. He looked at the house, his expression unreadable.

Right on cue, you came around the corner. You’d been waiting.