home tomorrow night and Seelie’s eviction from paradise was imminent. She thought about taking a shower alone, luxuriating under Arthur’s stainless-steel Kohler fixtures, bathing in the warmth and steam until the last of her muscles unclenched. Maybe then she’d—
A knock sounded at the door.
The bedside clock read 1:12, glowing green numbers hovering in shadow. Arthur stirred with a whiny little groan, fighting to stay asleep.
Another knock, louder this time. Now Arthur was awake. More awake than she had ever seen him. It was like someone flicked a switch in his head. He sat up, burgundy silk sheets slithering down his hairy gut, his eyes wide. He jumped out of bed and yanked a cashmere robe over his shoulders as he padded to the door and checked the peephole.
Seelie hovered near him, uncertain. This was weird behavior. Then again, her life was a sliding scale of weird behavior.
“Arthur?”
“Shh,” he hissed. He waved at her. “Get dressed.”
He was already halfway across the room, heading for his office. Seelie pulled on her concert T-shirt and wriggled into artfully ripped black jeans. He clicked the office light on. The knock sounded a third time. Whoever it was, they weren’t going away.
Seelie scooped up her backpack and followed Arthur. This was his man cave, a small den with a million-dollar view of the park, appointed with the bric-a-brac of Arthur’s favorite hobby. Miniature redcoat and patriot soldiers clashed across two tables of hand-painted terrain, tiny puffs of stained cotton representing the smoke of a Revolutionary War battlefield. Along one wall, a frayed and flame-seared flag hung securely under a pane of glass, faded with the passage of decades.
It was an American flag, but different, All red vertical stripes and no stars. She’d asked him about it once. “The Sons of Liberty,” he told her. “Here in New York, they were the first leaders of the revolution. Washington came through in ’76 and took Manhattan—for a little while, anyway—but they laid the groundwork.”
She’d put it out of her mind ever since. But now he was pulling the flag back, bracing the frame with one hand and digging behind it with the other, rummaging in a cubbyhole concealed midway up the wall.
“Is it your wife?” Seelie asked. “Is she home early?”
That didn’t seem likely, but it was an explanation she could accept. A little normality. Arthur shook his head.
He showed her his prize from the cubbyhole. A phone, slim, no case, on the cheap side. The kind you could buy for a little cash down and then pay for minutes as you went along. One of her friends was a small-time dope dealer; he had at least three phones just like it. Arthur shoved it at her.
“Hold on to this.”
“You’re scaring me,” she said. But she took the phone.
“It’s probably nothing. It’s just—”
Three more knocks, slow and loud.
“It’s probably nothing, but just in case, hang on to that for me. Stay here and stay quiet. Keep the door shut.”
She did everything but the last part, leaving the lights out and the door cracked so she could see. She tugged on her socks, black with Halloween-orange stripes, and her old tennis shoes as she watched. Arthur’s free hand dipped into the bedside table drawer.
It came out holding a gun.
Seelie didn’t even know Arthur had a gun. He never seemed like the type. But there it was, dull metal with a rough grip and a snub nose. He held it behind his back as he approached the front door.
He hesitated, just for a moment, then opened it wide.
The man on the other side, cast under the stark hallway lights, was cadaver thin. Skin like wax paper stretched across high cheekbones. His bloodless lips were a razor-thin line. He wore a black raincoat, slick from the drizzle outside, and beads of water pooled on the broad dark brim of his hat. A string tie adorned the emaciated hollow of his throat. His outfit reminded Seelie of an old-time preacher. A missionary maybe.
“Can I help you?” Arthur asked.
Behind his back, his grip tightened on the revolver. The missionary spoke with a German accent. Maybe Dutch, his refined lilt tinged with a burr of pleasure.
“Hello, Four-Nineteen.”
“I think you’ve got the wrong door, pal.”
Seelie watched through the crack in the doorway. Arthur’s thumb slowly, carefully drew back the revolver’s hammer. Her mouth went dry.
“You were sloppy in Philadelphia, Four-Nineteen.”
The hammer went click. Arthur brought his arm around and the missionary grabbed him by the other shoulder and yanked him close, hugging him like