The wind had eased just enough for clarity when the knock came, firmly this time. Lauren rose from her stool, smoothing her sweater, and approached the door. Through the glass, a well-dressed man in his early forties stood waiting, snow dusting his shoulders, an apologetic smile softening his face.
She turned the latch. “I’m Charles Winthrop,” he said, voice warm with relief. “Mabel’s nephew and her caretaker. She’s been missing for three days—I’ve been worried sick, driving these back roads in the storm.” His eyes searched hers, earnest, as if she held all the answers.