The flight landed three hours late.

I dragged my suitcase through the quiet hallway of my building a little after midnight, keys already in hand, exhausted and half-asleep. All I wanted was a shower and my own bed. When I turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, the lamp in the living room was already on.

A man sat on my couch.

Harlan Cole. Forty-seven. My neighbor from across the hall. Tall, broad-shouldered, always in dark clothes, the kind of man who nodded once in the elevator and never made small talk. I had given him a spare key six months ago when I went home...