coat.
Samuel Reed turned when he saw me.
He was perhaps in his late fifties, with silver at his temples and the same dark eyes I had seen in the photograph. He looked neither powerful nor mysterious.
He looked tired.
Like someone who had spent a long time carrying a question without knowing whether he would ever receive an answer.
He did not rush toward me.
He stayed beside the car, exactly as he had promised.
“I’m Samuel,” he said.
“I know.”
“I’m glad you called.”
“I’m not sure why
