Once we’d passed through Washburn, a quaint little city even smaller than Ashland, we were back onto narrow roads in wilderness. If I chose to stay in this area, for the job or any other offer, it would take me some time to get used to the difference between here and the city of Chicago.

Gone were the big buildings and traffic jams.

The road I was following wound through the tall trees until we arrived at a lane with an open gate, leading to what I assumed was Donovan Sherman’s home. Following his truck, I drove up a winding, inclined lane. My mouth opened as I stared through the windshield, taking in the huge structure. By its sheer size alone, I wondered if at one point this had been a hotel or bed and breakfast. At the same time, it appeared modern with a lot of windows and a combination stone and wood-sided exterior.

With the rental car parked on the cleared wide driveway, I stepped from the car and lifted my face to the massive structure. Pulling my down jacket around me, I stuffed my hands into the pockets to shield myself from the cold. I turned slowly all the way around, taking in the way the structure surrounded three sides of the driveway.

The closing of Van’s truck door echoed from the garages on my left. I turned, noticing how different he appeared from the night I met him. His mountain-man clothing was replaced with his custom-fitted suit and covered by a double-breasted wool coat. Instead of boots he wore leather loafers that clipped upon the concrete as he walked toward me from one of the double garages, the one where he’d just parked his truck. His orange hat was nowhere to be seen, and his gelled dark mane blew in the breeze.

I took in the other two double garage doors. Both sides of the structure were two stories, the center was three. Turning, it appeared as if the middle structure was the main house with another wing to the right and one to the left.

“This is a lot of house for one man.”

“I suppose it is.”

Van placed his hand in the small of my back. “Come with me and let me show you around.”

“Said the spider to the fly,” I mumbled as the pressure of his too-familiar touch brought thoughts of another part of our agreement to mind.

Without replying, Van led me up the front stone porch to the large entry. The door before us was easily five feet taller than Van. It was odd to see him appear dwarfed. That hadn’t happened in the cabin or Mr. Fields’s office. He turned the large knob and pushed the door inward.