The lakehouse had settled into its nighttime quiet, the kind that pressed in on the ears rather than soothing them. Moonlight spilled through the narrow windows in pale, fractured bands, catching on dust motes and the edges of old furniture that had been moved and repaired too many times to remember its original shape. The scent of oil and lakewater clung to the air—familiar, grounding. Vincent Shelby sat at the small kitchen table, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a disassembled radio laid out before him like a patient on an operating slab. His hands moved slowly, deliberately, each motion practiced, restrained.

Outside, Shell Lake lay black and still, a sheet of ink broken only by the faint lap of water against the dock. The hangar lights in the distance blinked once, then held. Vincent’s gaze flicked up at that, instinct sharp despite the years. He hadn’t turned on the porch light. He never did.

The knock came without warning—firm, measured, close enough to carry through the thin walls. Not a rattle. Not a mistake. Vincent didn’t flinch, but his hands stilled, fingers resting lightly against cold metal. He listened. Counted his breaths. The house seemed to hold its own breath with him.

Slowly, he rose, boots quiet against the worn floorboards as he crossed the narrow space toward the door. He didn’t reach for the light. He didn’t check the window. He stopped just short of the handle, close enough to feel the night’s chill seeping through the wood.

“It’s late,” he said calmly through the door.