Cade grips the banister, then says, “You’re right. We need to do this. For Nana.”

“For Nana,” I repeat. I peer through the beveled glass door into a small entryway closed off by a second door of solid wood. In the left corner, there’s an ornate wrought-iron coatrack that looks more for show than to hang wet winter gear.

I lift my fist to knock, then lower it. Woodpeckers have invaded my gut and I have to breathe through the pain. I glance over at Cade.

He leans in and rings the doorbell.

A curtain flutters behind the window with the wicker chairs. A woman calls out, “I got it.”

Mrs. Bartley opens the inner door, then closes it behind her as she steps into the entryway. Her frown deepens. It seems to take her forever to unlock the next door.

“Yes?” Her tone is sharp, temporarily paralyzing my ability to speak.

Cade shoves his hands into his pockets. His friendly customer smile and his friendly customer voice come out so smoothly, I’m in awe. “Hi, Mrs. Bartley. We were wondering, is Mr. Bartley available?”

She hesitates, then calls, “Joe? You have visitors.” She motions for us to step inside. “Wait here.”

She opens the interior door, then shuts it behind her. I track the tap, tap, tap of Mrs. Bartley’s shoes against the wood floors. A sports broadcast pouring out of some room in the distance clicks off.

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Bartley says.

“I’m not sure of anything, but I want to hear them out.”

Mrs. Bartley says something else, but I can’t make it out.

“They’re my students, Mary. You’re here. I’m not worried. I need a minute, then I’ll bring them in.”

Cade’s hand brushes against mine at my side, and stays.

Footsteps, this time heavier, have us both turning to the door. It swings wide open.

“Logan. Cade. Come on in. Feel free to hang up your jackets.” Mr. Bartley motions to the coatrack in the foyer, but we leave them on. He glances at the folder under my arm. “We can talk in the dining room.”

As Mr. Bartley leads us through a small parlor and an arched doorway, I take in the antiques. Framed old posters for presidential races sit on the fireplace mantel, a worn oriental rug covers most of the floor, and chairs and a couch look like they’ve been in this house since the late 1800s.

The dining room has a floor-to-ceiling built-in china cabinet and a magnificent wood table with clawfoot legs. Mr. Bartley sits at the head. Cade and I flank his sides. Mr. Bartley laces his fingers together and rests his forearms on the table.

He doesn’t say anything, but his expression holds the question Why are you here?

Cade gives me an almost unperceivable nod.