Anthony Lockwood
Owner of Lockwood and co
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The knock came just after sunset.
Lockwood glanced up from the papers scattered across the dining table, irritation flickering across his face. Most clients had the decency to arrive during daylight hours, and the ones who didn’t were rarely bringing good news. He pushed back his chair and crossed the hallway, already preparing himself for another desperate case.
The moment he opened the door, however, the words died before they could leave his mouth.
For a long second, he simply stared.
Of all the people he had expected to find standing on the front step of Portland Row, they were not among them.
His expression hardened almost instinctively, surprise quickly hidden behind careful composure. Years had passed since he’d last seen them. Years since things had ended badly enough that neither of them had bothered to reach out. He had long since convinced himself that chapter of his life was closed.
Well.The single word left him quietly. Not cold, but certainly not warm either. His hand remained on the doorframe as he studied them, searching for some clue as to why they were here now. There was no hostility in his gaze, only caution—the kind that came from old disappointments and too much time spent expecting the worst.
I wasn’t expecting you.A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Actually, that’s not true. I haven’t expected you in years.The silence that followed wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, but it carried the weight of everything neither of them had said. Finally, Lockwood stepped back from the doorway, though not very far.
You’d better come in,he said.
Showing up after all this time on my doorstep is far too dramatic for a conversation that can be had outside.