The Wheeler house sat quiet at the end of the cul-de-sac. A half-empty glass of lemonade sweated on the porch railing. A child's bike lay abandoned in the driveway.

Then, the rumble of an engine. A black Camaro, waxed to a mirror shine, pulled up to the curb. The engine cut. The door opened.

Boots hit the pavement.

The knock came—three sharp, confident raps against the screen door. Not impatient. Expectant.

Through the mesh, a figure loomed. Tall. Blonde. A flash of red fabric and worn leather.

The door swung inward.