A man.
He was moving slowly, almost silently, holding a jacket in one hand.
The stranger took one careful step toward the front door.
Ethan’s smile disappeared.
His arms remained around Hannah, but every muscle in his body tightened.
The man took another step.
Ethan looked directly at him.
“Stop right there.”
Hannah froze.
“What?”
The man stopped.
Ethan slowly released Hannah.
Her face changed the instant she followed his gaze.
The color vanished from her cheeks.
The stranger stood perhaps fifteen feet away.
Early thirties.
Sandy-brown hair.
Gray T-shirt.
Black jeans.
Barely breathing.
Ethan recognized him.
“Ryan?”
The man swallowed.
“Hey.”
Ethan stared at him.
Ryan Mitchell was not a stranger.
That almost made it worse.
Ryan had been part of Ethan’s social circle for nearly six years.
They were not best friends, but close enough.
Cookouts.
Football games.
Birthdays.
Ryan had helped Ethan move into this house.
He had eaten dinner at their table.
Ethan looked at Hannah.
Then at Ryan.
Then back at Hannah.
“What is he doing here?”
Neither answered.
Ethan laughed once.
It was not amusement.
“Somebody should probably say something.”
Hannah stepped toward him.
“Ethan, please.”
He immediately raised a hand.
“Don’t.”
Her eyes filled.
“It’s not—”
“If the next words are ‘what it looks like,’ don’t bother.”
Ryan looked toward the door again.
Ethan noticed.
“I said stay there.”
Ryan stopped.
“Man, I can explain.”
Ethan stared at him.
“Then start talking.”