When the pickup moved up the street, Albert put his beige four-door sedan into drive and followed. Maybe, he thought, Frommer would stop someplace for coffee. That would be a good place to approach him, where there were lots of other people around. Frommer wasn’t going to try anything violent when there were plenty of witnesses.

Or so Albert hoped.

Albert was not what one would call skilled in self-defence. He had never taken karate or judo classes. In school, he did not go for organized sports. In college, he was not on the football team.

Sometimes he played golf.

Frommer drove past several places where he could have bought coffee. A Dunkin Donuts, a McDonald’s, a couple of local diners.

So much for that idea.

His route was taking him out of town. Albert was thinking maybe he should have googled Ron Frommer before heading out this morning. Maybe he could have found out where he worked. He was starting to think maybe he hadn’t thought this through as well as he could have.

About five miles out of Promise Falls, along a wooded stretch of highway, Frommer put on his blinker and turned into a driveway. As far as Albert could tell, there was nothing to turn into there.

Just woods.

The truck disappeared down a gravel road.

Albert slowed the car and pulled over to the shoulder. Where had Frommer gone? Should he follow?

He sat there, listening to the engine idle. Gripped the steering wheel tightly. Felt sweat soaking his shirt under his arms.

“All I want to do is talk to him,” he said to himself. “That’s all. Just a conversation.”

Slowly, he turned off the road and inched his way down the driveway, tires crunching gravel along the way. A few yards and the driveway turned into a clearing in the woods. In front of him stood an A-frame chalet-style house. Set up out front of it were a couple of sawhorses and a work table.

Albert stopped the car a few feet behind the pickup. The tailgate was already down, revealing various tools and lengths of lumber. Frommer, wearing a ball cap with a long visor, was already out of the truck, strapping on a work belt. When he saw Albert’s car approach, he stopped what he was doing and took off the hat.

Albert stopped the car, turned off the engine, and slowly got out.

“Hello,” Frommer said.

“Um, hello, how are you?” Albert said, taking a few steps forward, near the back of the pickup.

“Can I help ya?” Frommer said, smiling.

“You . . . you’re Ron? Ron Frommer?”

“I am indeed,” he said.

“You do renovations?”

He nodded agreeably. “Doing some work here on the Cunninghams’ place while they’re in Europe. Were you looking for them, or for me?’

“I was . . . I guess I was looking for you?”

“What’s the name?”

“Albert. My name is Albert.”