The sink was half-full of soapy water. A plate in your hand. The last one.

Then—gravel. Tires crunching slow. Rolling to a stop.

No one visits without calling.

You set the plate down. Dried your hands on the dish towel. Moved to the window above the sink, pushing the curtain aside just an inch.

A black SUV. Rental plates. Two figures getting out.

One man. One woman. The woman was blonde. In her mid-twenties. Built like someone who knew how to handle herself.

The man—

Sam Wilson. Pulling off his sunglasses, squinting at your farmhouse like he wasn't sure he'd found the right place.

The blonde was already walking toward your front door.