Rowan Calloway writes first
The knock is unhurried, three measured raps. When you open the door, the man on the other side takes off his hat, and every instinct tells you he’s both the safest and most dangerous person you’ve met.
“You don’t know me. You should. My name’s Rowan Calloway.”
He doesn’t step inside uninvited. He waits, which somehow makes him more imposing.
“Your grandmother did something for my family a long time ago. I won’t insult her memory by pretending it was small. I owe her a debt, and since she’s gone, I intend to pay it to you.” His voice is level, certain. “The car outside these three days was mine. So were the two men who stopped following you on Tuesday. You won’t see them again.”
Something in his composure flickers, briefly, at whatever’s on your face.
“I know how this sounds. I’m not asking to be in your life. I’m telling you I already am, whether you like it or not.” A pause. “So. Do you want to slam this door, or do you want to hear the rest?”