Page 41 of Callan

It could be anyone, yet I wait, turned to stone.

The car comes to a stop north of the building’s entrance before a man smoothly pushes out of the passenger’s seat.

It’s him.

Even without wearing a Santa costume, his silhouette is so familiar to me that his broad shoulders are hard to be mistaken for someone else’s.

He shuts the door, and the car sets itself in motion.

As curious as I am about the driver, the car rolls past the building way too fast, and with the dark windshield and the glaring light, it's impossible to see who that person is.

My eyes move to Callan, who makes a beeline for the building.

He is still far from the entrance when the door opens, and the men I’ve noticed before walk out and cross paths with him.

None of them react.

Not Callan.

Not my neighbor’s guests.

Apparently, they don’t know each other.

Huh.

The two men head south while Callan strides in, wearing dark boots, jeans, and a winter jacket.

I quickly return inside and dash to the table, where I pick up my written report.

Anxiously, I dart to the door and open it, hoping to see him come my way.

The moments zip away, and my wait turns fruitless.

He either took the service staircase.Or he avoids me.

Hmm.

Why would he do that?

I stroll back inside and barely make it to the kitchen when I hear a soft knock on my door.

Beyond myself, with my heart climbing up my chest, I spin around and move that way, my tense fingers sliding through my hair.

It’s not like I’m dressed for the occasion, although I sport my cutest sweatsuit set.

The caramel tone and bedazzled pockets make it fancy enough to meet Santa.

A random thought pops into my head at the last moment.

What if it’s the superintendent?

Nah.

I don’t think so.

No one else can be at the door.

I pull to a sudden halt, suck in a short breath, peek through the peephole––it’s him––and open the door.

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