You were leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing a drink that was mostly melted ice. Across the crowded room, near the sliding glass doors to the backyard, you could see him.

The back door opened, letting in a burst of cool night air and a new wave of noise from the yard. Jean Kirstein shouldered his way inside, a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a smirk already on his face. His eyes scanned the room, passing over the crowd, and then landing squarely on you.