I was fifty-eight and I lived alone.
On the mantel, a framed photo of my daughter Rachel lay face-down.
It had been that way for three years.
I had just turned off the lights and climbed into bed when someone knocked on my front door.
It was just before midnight.
I sat up, my heart unsettled.
Someone knocked on my front door.
Who came knocking at that hour, in weather like this?