I got up and walked to the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. Across the street, the houses were dark, their porch lights casting small halos in the autumn mist.
At 11:30 PM, I walked into the kitchen and checked the lock on the back door. The metal deadbolt was cold to the touch.
At midnight, I returned to the living room and began to pace the length of the worn Persian rug. Five steps to the television stand, five steps back to the bookshelf.
My wristwatch read 12:40 AM when the handle of the front door finally turned.
Harper slipped into the hallway, her shoulders hunched. Her dark hair was wet, sticking in flat clumps to the collar of her jacket, and her eyes were rimmed with red.
“You are nearly two hours late,” I said, stepping into the hallway.
She did not look up. She began to pull off her muddy shoes, her fingers clumsy on the wet laces.
