THE VICTORIAN DISTRICT. That’s what they called this area of Savannah. I’d been here before, to this exact house. In many ways, it reminded me of the brownstones in Brooklyn, but made of wood and with more color. In the darkness the colors were muted, but during the day, they were like a rainbow, blues and greens, even shades of pink. The houses were semi-detached, giving each a side yard, yet their floor plans were similar to what I had known. The structure was narrow, deep, and tall. Without the woodwork and architectural bric-a-brac, they would resemble the old shotgun style seen more frequently in New Orleans.

Through the years and with the renovations, the value of homes in this area of Savannah had increased significantly. And while being a secretary at the esteemed law firm of Hamilton and Porter in this historic city was a noble job, it wasn’t what one considered lucrative. Not lucrative enough to be able to afford one of these townhomes. That took extra income, the kind not found on a tax return.

I peered up and down the quiet street. Nighttime had fallen hours ago, taking the residents inside and allowing quaint, old-fashioned streetlights to be the only source of illumination. The black iron fence separating the small front yard from the street wasn’t locked. I’d already checked that. It seemed like she’d learn. It hadn’t been locked the last time I was here either.

That little stretch of green helped the residents of this area believe they were better than the brownstones and many of the shotgun houses. These fine dwellers had a front yard.

I couldn’t help but shake my head. Through the years it had become obvious that the things people considered important became trivial as the life they lived slipped away. The item on the grocery list with the star was no longer significant. The appointment at the beauty parlor was no longer paramount. The new car or green patch of earth no longer mattered.

Death had a way of refocusing both men and women.

The sad observation was that the clarity given to these misguided souls came too late for action. Perhaps there was solace in the knowledge or could it be remorse? If only the realization had come when there was time to rectify goals. That was seldom the case.

The gate creaked as I lifted the lever and pushed it inward. The slam as it shut behind me echoed on the empty street, awakening a dog a few doors down. Thankfully, after a few halfhearted barks to do his job, the canine forgot its interruption and quieted.

Historically accurate, the porch was as it had been a hundred years earlier. Revisions included new boards and paint, but not surveillance. There were no visual doorbells or cameras. My image would not be captured or saved.

With a handkerchief covering my finger, I pushed the round button. A chime played within, its tune barely audible at my distance. The unlit porch light should probably have been an indication that Miss Natalie Banks wasn’t expecting visitors, but this was the South. Hospitality, even at a late hour, was inbred.

Keeping my face away from the side window, I waited as the interior entry filled with light. Seconds later, the door opened.

“May I…” Miss Banks’s welcome stopped as our eyes met.

Recognition and terror were easily misconstrued. Perhaps it was that I’d witnessed them both, often in conjunction, one right after the other. Her gaze darted around me.

“M-Mr. Demetri?”

“No one has seen me, which is neither an advantage nor a disadvantage. It’s rude to entertain on your porch, Miss Banks.”

She hesitated for only a moment before taking a step back. “Please, come in.”

Nodding, I stepped over the threshold. Neat and clean, the foyer was narrow with the staircase to my left and a formal sitting room to my right. The solid oak floors glistened with the artificial light as Natalie Banks took another step backward on a narrow hallway that led past the stairs toward the kitchen.

“I’d forgotten what a very nice home you have.”

Bobbing her head quickly she tugged at the hem of her shirt. “Thank you. Would you like something to drink? The kitchen is—”

My cheeks rose. “No, I’d like something else.”

I hadn’t been the only contributor to her unreported income, but I had made a significant donation after she helped to point Alexandria toward the resort in Del Mar, a far larger donation than the task was worth. That made us family.

Family watched over one another. They helped one another out. They repaid debts. Hers had just come due.