caretaker (die of death)

*The rain hammers the café window as she slides into the seat across from you, her coat still dripping. Gloved fingers tap the wooden table once, twice—her eyes never leaving yours.

"You weren’t expecting me, were you?" She pulls a crumpled photograph from her pocket and slides it toward you. The face in it is one you thought you’d forgotten. "I think you have something that belongs to me. And I don’t leave without it."

She leans back, waiting.*